


At Right Angles

by numberthescars



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Female John, Genderswap, Multi, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-16
Updated: 2012-06-29
Packaged: 2017-11-07 21:43:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/435757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/numberthescars/pseuds/numberthescars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Joan's world is turned upside-down, Mycroft and Molly are nosy, and Sherlock is the last one to find out (for once). Pregnant! Fem!John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Major thanks to the brilliant and talented yalublyutebya for her beta work, and all the wonderful commenters on the meme for their kind words of encouragement. Originally written for [this prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/19351.html?thread=115724951#t115724951) on the meme.

It was only three days late. Three days, but she’d been as regular as clockwork since the age of fifteen. And anyway, it was easy enough for a doctor like her to sneak a test kit from the medical storeroom—there were always plenty to be had. Pregnancy was one complaint they rarely had to deal with in the tiny camp hospital.

Joan balanced gingerly on the metal toilet cover in the cramped loo, waiting. Her shoulder began to cramp as she sat there, and she rolled it slowly with a groan. She was tense. Well, why wouldn’t she be? This was not a situation she’d ever thought she’d be in. Oh, she’d thought about it in an abstract sense—it went through her mind once in a while, when she heard from her brother, or got one of the occasional baby announcements from old med school mates. Or, even more rarely, when rumours circulated that some service woman or another was going home on an “unexpected” leave. Everyone knew what _that_ meant.

It meant two options. Option A: find a discreet woman’s clinic somewhere and an understanding medical officer, willing to write you up a recommendation for a few weeks off. Go. Deal with the problem. Then return to the front as soon as possible. Option B…

But she’d never really considered Option B.

Time was up. Joan took a deep breath, biting her lip. It was probably nothing. Three days. Three days could be stress. Exhaustion. A touch of the flu. Three days was nothing important, certainly nothing to be worried about. She would look down, and there would be no worries, no choices, no options. Just a little minus sign and a lighter heart and a full day’s work ahead of her. Like always.

She looked down. _Shit._

 

 

 

 

“Thank you for coming in on such short notice, Joan. Couldn’t have asked for more perfect timing, what with Molly going on maternity leave next week.”

Mike smiled cheerfully down at her as they meandered side-by-side down the hall. The old hospital had changed significantly from Joan’s last visit, nearly five years ago. She hadn’t known Mike was working here—he was several years her senior, and they hadn’t belonged to the same social group. But he seemed like a nice guy, and when he’d heard that a fellow Bart’s graduate was looking for a job, he’d called her personally and offered an interview.

“I’m just happy to have work,” Joan said. Though the irony of the fact that she was providing maternity leave cover didn’t escape her. She glanced self-consciously down at her still-flat belly, then jerked her head up again in annoyance. Stupid. Of course she wasn’t showing, she was only a month-and-a-half along.

“We’re lucky to have you,” Mike replied warmly. “Your CV is quite impressive. Are you sure you won’t be bored? It’s mostly just routine autopsies, hum-drum stuff compared to your work in the field.”

“I don’t mind.” It was true. “Might be a nice change, actually.”

“If you have a strong stomach,” Mike joked. “That’s why I became a lecturer, it’s all dry textbooks for me. No more cleaning up messes when one of the kids accidentally nicks the lower intestine, or smelling like an over-full skip for the rest of the day.”

“Mmhmm,” Joan agreed noncommittally. She couldn’t imagine hanging up her stethoscope for teaching. Not that she was likely to be using a stethoscope much in her new job either. The dead didn’t go in for heartbeats, in general. At least, not in her experience.

“Let me just introduce you to Dr. Hooper—she’s the woman you’ll be filling in for. She can give you the rundown—you’ll be shadowing her for the first few days, so don’t worry about procedure just yet. And I can give you a hand with the paper work until you get the hang of it.”

He pushed open the door leading to a brightly lit lab, full of state-of-the-art equipment. Joan barely stopped herself from whistling as she took in gleaming post mortem tables, a ventilated formulin mixing unit, and stainless steel dissecting benches. There was even an overhead projector, presumably for teaching purposes, and a bunch of brand-new electronic apparatus she didn’t recognize from her days as a student. “Bit different from my day,” she commented, stepping inside.

“And mine,” Mike chuckled. “Molly? Molly, are you—oh, it’s you, Sherlock.”

Mike stopped abruptly, and Joan nearly bumped into him. She leaned around his solid bulk to get a better view of the room. Seated at one of the counters on the far side of the lab was a pale, praying mantis of a man, with a thatch of unruly dark hair. He was bent over one of the microscopes, ignoring them completely.

“You know you’re not supposed to be in here without a staff member,” Mike chided, but he sounded more amused than angry. “Have you seen Molly recently?”

“Canteen,” the man grunted without looking up. “She offered to get coffee.”

“Ah,” Mike said, as though that explained everything. He turned back to Joan. “Sorry, Joan, it looks like Molly’s a bit occupied at the moment. Shall I walk you through the paperwork now then, and we can do the lab bit later?”

Before she could respond, the pale man interrupted. “Who is she?”

He’d directed the question at Mike, eyes narrowed. Rather rude, considering Joan was standing right there.

“Sherlock, this is Dr. Joan Watson, an old friend,” Mike replied. Joan quietly thought “old friend” was stretching the point a bit, but she was hardly going to argue. “She’ll be filling in while Molly’s on maternity leave. Joan, this is Sherlock Holmes. He’s a private detective, and he uses the labs here sometimes.”

“ _Consulting_ detective,” the man—Sherlock Holmes—corrected Mike haughtily.

“Nice to meet you,” Joan said.

“Hmm,” Sherlock hummed. He was _staring_ at her in an incredibly invasive way. It made her want to cross her arms over her abdomen and hide. Oddly though, she didn’t feel like her breasts were in any danger of being ogled. “Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“Um…what?” she said flatly, glancing at Mike. He was hiding a grin, the git.

“I said, Afghanistan or Iraq,” Sherlock repeated, rolling his eyes impatiently.

Joan opened her mouth to retort, but just then a petite, if distinctly rotund, brunette woman bustled into the lab. She was clutching a steaming paper cup in one hand and a doughnut in the other. “Sherlock, I got your—oh!”

“Molly,” Mike smiled at the brunette. “I was just looking for you. This is Dr. Watson. She’ll be covering your shift starting next week.”

“Oh!” Molly said again, this time in delight. Joan eyed the sloshing coffee warily as the woman attempted to wave hello with her hands full. “That’s wonderful. I was beginning to worry we wouldn’t find anyone. It’s not the most glamorous job—I mean, what do you put in a job ad for morgue technician?” she giggled nervously.

“Wanted: one qualified medical professional, necrophiliacs need not apply,” Sherlock quipped, swooping in to grab the coffee cup out of Molly’s hand. “Don’t worry Molly, Dr. Watson here fulfills both criteria.”

“Er…thanks,” Joan said uncertainly.

Sherlock’s head swiveled back in her direction, as though he hadn’t expected her to answer. Joan rather regretted it herself. She felt uncomfortable under his x-ray gaze. Maybe if she just answered his question he’d stop staring? “It was Afghanistan, by the way. How did you know about that?”

He cocked his head to one side. “Yes,” he mused, ignoring her question. “Career military, invalided home recently. No, not invalided home…you were asked to leave.” Joan felt a bubble of anxiety rise in her stomach.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said with a frown, trying not to panic.

“Odd choice for an army doctor, working in a morgue,” Sherlock continued, still staring at Joan. “Not your first preference, but you can’t find other work and you _need_ work, fast. Now, why would you need work so desperately if you were invalided home with an Army pension? So, no pension, and no injury. You were asked to leave.”

Joan swallowed. “I decided to leave. It was my own choice,” she said, clenching her fists.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Was it indeed?” he murmured.

Mike gave a polite little cough. “Ahem. As I was saying…Molly, I was hoping you could give Dr. Watson a tour of the morgue facilities. Unless you’re busy?” He glanced pointedly in Sherlock’s direction.

Molly coloured. “No, I’m free. Sherlock was just leaving.”

“No, I wasn’t. The initial bruising pattern requires at least another twenty minutes to set in,” Sherlock cut in tactlessly.

Molly sent him a scathing look. “Thanks for that, Sherlock,” she hissed.

“You’re welcome.”

Molly rolled her eyes skyward for a moment before turning to Joan. “Sorry about all this,” she smiled, “I’ve been a bit out of sorts lately. Hormones, you know.”

“Yes, I understand.” _All too well._ “When are you due?” she asked politely.

“Not for a month, but I decided to go on maternity leave a bit early,” Molly gushed happily. “To get the house ready and everything. And Greg—that’s my husband—said I should take it easy.”

Sherlock gave a derisive snort. “What?” Molly asked crossly.

“Nothing,” Sherlock sneered.

“You know, you could be a little nicer to me,” Molly grumbled. “What would you do without me around to let you into the lab and help you with your experiments?”

“Yes, and what would you do without me around to give you excuses for snack breaks?” Sherlock smirked. “I’d recommend easing up on the doughnuts, by the way. You’ve put on at least thirty pounds so far.”

“Twenty-five,” Molly retorted heatedly.

“Thirty.”

“ _Twenty-five._ And it’s baby weight!”

“Alright,” Mike said in a placatory tone. “Settle down children. It’s too early for dramatics.”

“I need to go anyway,” Sherlock sniffed, grabbing a long black coat from a nearby chair. He pulled it on in one smooth movement, hitching his shoulders once to settle the neckline. It was an improvement, Joan thought. He looked a little less ill-fed and pasty, a little more Byronic and confident. She was pretty sure it had something to do with the collar. “I left my riding crop in the cold storage room. Molly, text me pictures of the bruises that form within the next six hours.”

He slammed the door on his way out.

Joan stared after him for a second, before turning to Mike and Molly. “Did he just say ‘riding crop’?” she asked.

It was a sign of what was to come that both merely shrugged.

 

 

 

 

Joan didn’t see Sherlock again for another several days, and when she did it was entirely by accident—on his part, at least. She was fairly sure he’d gone out of his way to stay away from her up until then.

She’d skipped lunch that day, and by the time three o’clock rolled around she was starving. She popped into the canteen for tea (sadly decaffeinated) and a sandwich, then doubled back for a few Jammy Dodgers. She munched on them happily as she walked down the hall back to the morgue, savoring the raspberry filling. It was odd: she generally hated sweets. But over the past few weeks, she’d found herself hungering for pudding at nearly every meal. Food cravings were something you always heard expectant mothers whinge about, so much so that Joan had sometimes thought the descriptions of midnight fridge raids and bizarre food combinations (olives and cheesecake? Really?) were overblown. Now she knew better. The notion made her heart beat a little faster.

With a sigh, she shifted her thoughts in a safer direction. Her mind was already on the next cadaver waiting to be processed when she pushed open the door to the lab.

She froze.

The cadaver in question was set up on the nearer of the two post mortem tables, its torso neatly covered in a white cloth. A dissecting bench had been pulled over and arranged nearby, with the proper implements laid out in readiness. The ventilator fans were whirring. Everything was perfectly in order for the autopsy, which was fine—except that Joan hadn’t done any of it.

“What are you doing?” She glared at the tall, skinny man standing poised over the body.

Sherlock’s eyebrows contracted into a scowl. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

“ _You’re_ the one who’s not supposed to be here,” Joan retorted, striding towards him. “I work here, remember?”

“Molly always leaves early on Thursdays,” he said, sounding almost sulky.

“Yeah, well, I’m not Molly,” Joan snapped. She stopped just short of him, reaching forward to pluck a sterile facemask from the box on the counter. She tossed one in his direction. “Put this on. I haven’t processed her yet, so I don’t have a cause of death. Could be contagious.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “It’s obvious that she died of some kind of overdose. Just look at her fingernails.”

Joan narrowed her eyes at him, still holding out the mask. “Until I’ve confirmed the cause of death, you have to wear a mask. It’s hospital procedure.”

He grumbled, but took the mask from her. “Happy?” he asked in a muffled voice once the mask was in place.

Joan snapped her own mask over her nose and mouth. “Overjoyed.”

She moved to the opposite side of the table, so the body lay between her and Sherlock. It was a woman, a few years younger than herself, with dyed blonde hair and a slender build. Unwillingly, she looked down at the woman’s fingernails. She could see what Sherlock meant: the woman’s thin, tapered fingertips were tinted a dark blue-purple, indicating circulation failure and advanced oxygen deprivation before death—a known side effect of some drugs and strong painkillers, but certainly not the only explanation.

When she looked up again, Sherlock was watching her. “What?”

“What’s your opinion, doctor?” he asked.

She frowned at him. “Of?”

“The body.” Another eyeroll. “You _are_ a licensed medical professional, are you not?”

“No need to be snide,” Joan replied, letting her gaze fall back to the young woman. “I’m not used to talking while I work.”

“Neither am I.” She looked up and caught his eye again. “Yet, here we are.” His cheeks shifted, and she thought he might be smiling beneath the mask. “So. The body.”

“Female, young—early thirties, I’d say. Going by the bluish tinge in her extremities, she suffered from hypoxia and arteriole vasospasms leading to cyanosis immediately before death.” Joan leaned closer to the woman’s face, carefully parting her stiffed lips to look inside her mouth, then palpating her throat. “No signs of asphyxiation or strangulation. Overdose is possible,” she glanced at Sherlock, and sure enough he looked smug, “but heart attack or pulmonary embolism are also viable options,” she continued.

“If it were a pulmonary embolism, there would be evidence of respiratory distress,” Sherlock said dismissively, “and there is none. As for a heart attack,” he snorted. “Just look at her armpits.”

“Her armpits?”

“Yes,” Sherlock replied. He lifted the cadaver’s left arm. “See?”

“No, I don’t, actually,” Joan said, peering at the woman’s underarm. It was shaved smooth and looked clean.

“Exactly!” Sherlock let the arm fall back on the table with a sickening smack that made Joan wince in sympathy. “Because there is nothing _to_ see. If she had sweated profusely, as she would have prior to suffering a major heart attack, there would be salt residue and bacterial discoloration. But there’s nothing!”

“Alright.” Joan frowned down at the body. “So, it wasn’t a heart attack then. What makes you so sure it was an overdose though?”

“I’m not sure,” Sherlock said to her surprise. “That’s why I needed to see the body, obviously. A man’s guilt rests on the cause of this woman’s death.”

“Does this have anything to do with the bruising from last time?” Joan asked curiously.

“No, of course not,” Sherlock frowned. “Different case entirely. The last one was much more dull.”

He pushed away from the table, pulling off his facemask and beginning to pace. “The brother had motive to poison her, obviously he wanted the inheritance for himself, but there’s no _evidence_. It must be staring me in the face!” He whirled back to the corpse in frustration. “Ugh, if only Anderson weren’t such an _idiot_ , I could have questioned him longer…”

“Do you know if she takes any medicines regularly?” Joan asked, struggling to follow the detective’s garbled explanation. “If there was a change in her normal regime—”

“There’s no way the brother could have altered her medicines,” Sherlock interrupted, still pacing angrily. “They were estranged and rarely spoke.”

“Well, maybe he overwhelmed her by force and shot her up with the drugs,” Joan suggested.

“Impossible.” Sherlock pointed at the body. “Do you see bruises? Scratch marks? Any sign of a struggle? And no needle pricks either. Nothing but blue fingers and cardiac arrest!” He grimaced at the dead woman, as though the lack of damning evidence was somehow her fault.

Joan chewed her lip. _Hypoxia, arteriole vasospasms, cyanosis and cardiac arrest…_

“Reynaud’s Syndrome,” she said suddenly.

Sherlock stopped dead. “What?”

“Reynaud’s Syndrome,” Joan repeated, wondering how she hadn’t thought of it before. “It’s pretty rare in someone this young, but it happens. It’s when severe cold or strong emotions cause circulation problems in the extremities, just like this.” She frowned slightly. “Shouldn’t be fatal though. Not unless she had some other kind of autoimmune disease as well.”

Sherlock’s eyes lit up. “That’s it!” he shouted. “Oh, it’s clever, _very_ clever, but I’ve got him now!” He spun around, grabbing Joan by the shoulders. “Can I use your mobile?” he demanded, eyes dilated in excitement.

“Uh, sure,” Joan muttered, pulling awkwardly out of his grasp. She fumbled in her lab coat pocket for the mobile, then thrust it into his waiting hands. His fingers flew across the tiny buttons.

“Done.” He threw the mobile in her direction (good reflexes and luck meant she caught it just in time) and grabbed his coat. “Thanks.”

“Where are you going?” Joan asked, as he headed towards the door.

“Sorry, got to dash. People to see, murders to solve,” he called over his shoulder, and then he was gone.

Joan looked down at the mobile in her hand. She clicked to the “Sent Messages” tab.

**If brother has Lupus arrest brother. SH**

Her eyebrows disappeared into her fringe. What had she gotten herself into?

 

 

 

 

After that, Joan saw Sherlock nearly everyday. He was never predictable, and always turned up at the most inconvenient moments. He would come in late in the evening, when Molly had already gone home, or in the middle of a staff meeting, or during lunch hour. And he pestered her with texts constantly: **What’s the average fluid intake of a 22-year-old adult male? How many muscles do cats have in each ear? How much fentanyl would it take to kill a 68kg woman?** He even texted her over the weekend, asking her to come in and open up the lab for him. Its Sunday. **The morgue is closed on Sunday** , she texted back.

**That’s why I’m texting you. SH**

**i don’t work on Sundays.**

**People die on Sundays too. SH**

**It’s not like theyre going anywhere.**

But she got up and went to Bart’s anyway.

“This better be a damn serious emergency,” Joan grumbled when she arrived at the employee’s entrance at the back of the hospital to find Sherlock already waiting. “Midsomer Murders was on.”

“If you lived closer to the hospital, it wouldn’t be so difficult to get here on weekends,” Sherlock commented. Joan shot him a gimlet-eyed look. Commuting distance was _not_ the main problem she had with coming in to work on weekends.

“There’s nothing I can do about it,” she said finally, opening her purse to look for her employee pass. “I can’t afford anything in this neighborhood, not by a long shot. There’s no point moaning about it.”

“I’m looking at a flat,” Sherlock started. Joan stopped digging through her bag and glanced up at him, but he was staring down at his fingers. “221B Baker Street. I know the landlady, so we can rent it at a discount. It’s not within walking distance, but the commute would be far more reasonable than your current one.”

Joan’s forehead wrinkled in confusion. “Are—are you asking me to move in with you? As your…girlfriend?”

Sherlock’s head jerked upwards so quickly it was almost comical. “No!” he retorted vehemently. Joan would have been offended if she hadn’t been so relieved.

“Thank god.” She relaxed a bit. “So…whatare you saying?”

“I’m asking you to move in with me, as my _flatmate_ ,” Sherlock replied, stressing the final word. “You’re a doctor, an army doctor, in fact, so the violence and death associated with my line of work will not disturb you. You work at Bart’s morgue—sharing with you would grant me further access to the facilities. And you know better than to disrupt my experiments.”

Joan raised an eyebrow. “I’m still not seeing what _I’m_ getting out of this arrangement.”

Sherlock twitched, then continued. “The rent is too much for me on my own, but with the two of us it should suit nicely.” Joan tapped her fingers against her bag. Sherlock looked strained. “And you—you’re…less of an idiot than most people.” He looked down at her, and for the first time in their brief acquaintance, Joan thought he seemed a bit nervous. She struggled to hold back a smile. “So?”

“I’ll think about it.” Sherlock seemed like a good bloke, despite his barking-mad-genius ways, but they barely knew each other. And…if she was honest with herself, she was scared. She knew enough about Sherlock to realize that if they moved in together, it would be hard to keep anything a secret from him for long, and there were one or two things she wasn’t sure she was ready to share yet.

Joan heaved a mental sigh, looking back down at her purse. She really ought to organize her things a little better—it always took ages to find her employee pass in the morning. Just when she’d finally managed to locate it, Sherlock stepped in front of her, waving a small square of plastic in front of the electronic sensor. The light flashed green and the door clicked. He grasped the handle and pulled it open for her. She glared.

“You bastard, you had a pass all this time?” she said, exasperated. “Why the hell didn’t you just let yourself in?”

“I borrowed it,” Sherlock replied evasively, which made Joan think he’d nicked the pass off someone. Probably Mike. “Besides, I wanted your opinion.”

Joan rolled her eyes, but felt an unexpected flush of warmth at the words. She stepped through the door. It was nice to be needed.

 

 

 

 

Joan had gotten so used to Sherlock’s eccentricities that when her mobile rang much later that night she groaned into her pillow and lifted the mobile to her ear without hesitation.

“Goddammit Sherlock, it’s one o’clock in the morning, what do you want?”

“Uh…Joan?”

Joan sat up. The hesitant voice on the other end of the line wasn’t Sherlock. Come to think of it, he always texted, never called. “Bill?”

“Sorry to wake you,” Bill said apologetically. “I know it’s late, but I needed to talk to you.”

He was speaking in hushed tones, like he was trying not to wake someone up. _Three guesses who_ , Joan thought grimly. “I thought we went over this,” she replied instead, sighing.

“We—well, we did, but—”

“Then what is this really about? Because I’ve been on my feet all day, and I’m fucking tired,” Joan snapped, exhaustion sharpening her voice to an edge.

She heard him moving around, a squeaking sound like a door opening, and then more shuffling. In her mind’s eye, she pictured him tiptoeing from the bedroom where his sleeping wife lay into the adjoining bathroom, and locking the door behind him. “I just need to know that you’re okay,” he said, a little louder than before. “I know this wasn’t what you wanted.”

Joan felt irritation blaze to life in her chest. “I don’t remember you forcing me,” she retorted. “I _chose_ this. I told you about it—I told you I don’t need any help. And that’s the end of it.”

“You can’t just expect me to forget about it!” Bill hissed back, temper getting the better of him. “I’m going to be a _father_ , Joan.”

His anger had a paradoxically calming effect on her; she took a deep breath. “I know. I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “But you’re already a father. And a husband. And—I don’t want those things. Not right now.” _Not with you._

She could practically hear him deflate. “Right. Yes.” They were both quiet for a few long, awkward moments, before Joan broke the silence.

“Christ, what happened to us, Murray?” she asked, keeping the question purposefully light. “We’ve gotten so boring since we left the Fighting Fifth.”

He chuckled. “I think we just got old.”

“Yeah.” That was exactly the thought that had been running through her mind back then, as she’d stared down at that ominous little pink cross. _You’re getting old. This might be your only chance_.

“Thanks.”

Joan ran a hand through her messy hair. “What for?”

“For this. You.” He chuckled again, a little. “Let’s stay friends, okay? No matter what happens, let’s stick together.”

“Bill…”

“I won’t interfere,” he said quickly. “That’s not what I meant. But if you need someone, if you’re in a tight spot, you can count on me.”

She smiled slightly, an odd half-quirk of her lips. “Right, okay. I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Goodnight, Joan.”

“Night.”

Joan let the mobile fall to her lap. Her head was pounding now, but she was wide-awake. There was no way she was going back to sleep, not with her mind turning in circles like a frightened rabbit in her head. Despite her confident words to Bill, she had to idea what the fuck she was doing. Oh, she was a doctor—she had the prenatal vitamins, the regular check-ups scheduled at a clinic, all the physical things were prepared—but mentally? She had barely begun to wrap her head around the idea of having a _baby_ inside of her, let alone started thinking about things like names and cots and motherhood. She couldn’t raise her child in a bedsit, that much was for sure. But she couldn’t raise it with a flatmate either. Could she?

Her mobile buzzed against her thigh, and she glowered down at it. The screen shone up at her: she had a new text message.

**At the morgue. Come if convenient.**

She rolled her eyes with a groan. How could going to a morgue at one o’clock on a Sunday night (or Monday morning, really) _ever_ be considered convenient?

The mobile buzzed again.

**If inconvenient, come anyway.**

Joan stared down at the message. It didn’t seem particularly urgent and, really, she should probably just ignore it, or Sherlock would start to get ideas about bossing her around. But it wasn’t like she was going back to sleep anyway. Frankly, the distraction of a case sounded brilliant just now. Joan stood and stretched. Bart’s wasn’t so far away, after all.

 


	2. Chapter 2

The hospital corridors were silent and deserted when Joan arrived at Bart’s nearly an hour later. It ought to have been creepy, but for some reason Joan found the quiet comforting. It was a soothing counterpoint to the frenetic, heated worry that had lodged itself inside her brain. She’d sat in the taxi stewing all the way from home, her mind stuck on repeat as visions of her worst fears played and replayed inside her head: _What if someone found out? What if she couldn’t find permanent work? What if there was something wrong with the baby? What if she didn’t love it? What if—it didn’t love her?_

But the halls of Bart’s were quiet, and the gentle drone of the sanitizing equipment and ventilation fans hummed like a lullaby in her ears. Joan moved trance-like towards the door to the morgue, where the frosted glass glowed bright with light from inside. The one lit room in a sleeping city.

She reached the door and stood there for a moment, her fingers curled around the smooth, cool metal of the handle, before she twisted it open. Then she pushed forward.

The tall man standing with his back to the door turned around when she entered.

It wasn’t Sherlock.

“Doctor Watson,” the man said graciously, as though welcoming her to a private party. He looked like he might be dressed for one, too: the elegant three-piece suit he wore like a second skin couldn’t have come from anywhere but Savile Row. Joan felt suddenly self-conscious in her ancient tracksuit bottoms. “Won’t you sit down?” He indicated a pair of plastic chairs that had been placed at the centre of the lab. On one of the post-mortem tables nearby, a china teapot, two cups and a plate of biscuits sat waiting.

Joan opened her mouth to make a witty retort (or at least a retort of some kind—she could be excused for not being witty at two o’clock in the morning), but what came out instead was: “Who are you?” It didn’t even sound particularly angry.

The man smiled at her. “Please, do sit down. You must be tired—my brother has an unfortunate tendency to keep his associates on their feet.”

“Your—brother?” The man just smiled, pointing again toward the chairs with the tip of his umbrella. Joan shut her gaping mouth and moved to sit in the farther of the two chairs. _Why the hell does he have an umbrella? It’s not even raining._

“Tea?” the man asked once they were both settled. He lifted the china teapot. It had a design of pink roses painted on the side. Joan decided that the situation couldn’t get any more surreal.

“Why not,” she sighed. “Milk, no sugar, please.”

He nodded gravely, and set about making their tea. Soon they were both sipping from dainty china cups, the saucers balanced on their laps. It was delicious.

“So,” she said, lowering her cup to its saucer slowly. “You’re Sherlock’s brother.”

The man smiled again. “And you’re Dr. Joan Watson, recently of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, currently employed by St. Bartholomew’s mortuary. You are on voluntary leave from the army—not a permanent discharge, I believe. Do you have hopes of returning after your convalescence?”

Joan blinked. “What do you want?” she asked warily, carefully ignoring the final question. “And I don’t think I heard a name in all that.”

He laughed. “You’re quite right, how very rude of me. I am Mycroft Holmes. Pleased to make your acquaintance,” he replied amiably. “As for what I want…that is based entirely on what _you_ want.”

Joan watched as Mycroft took another sip of tea. Now that she knew his identity, she thought she could see the familial resemblance. The hair was similar, though Mycroft’s was tamed where Sherlock’s was unruly. They were both tall and angular, but while Sherlock had the malnourished look of an ascetic, Mycroft seemed like a man who knew how to enjoy life. He wasn’t fat, not even overweight in the strictest sense of the word, but the edges of his figure were softer. Though that might have been simply down to age; Mycroft was clearly the older of the two—there were a few strands of grey in his dark hair, and his eyes looked tired. His intense, penetrating gaze, however, was just like Sherlock’s.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Joan replied finally. “Look, if you’ve got something to say, just spit it out. It’s the middle of the night, and I don’t do riddles.”

Mycroft lowered his cup, and his eyes hardened momentarily. “What is your connection with Sherlock?”

“I barely know him.” It was the truth, for the most part. “We met less than a week ago.”

“And now you’re planning to share a flat and solve crimes together. Are we to expect a happy announcement by the end of the month?”

The question sounded like a joke, but Joan heard the truth in it. “I haven’t agreed to the flatshare,” she said.

“But you’re considering it.” He watched her face carefully, looking, Joan was certain, for evidence of a lie.

“Yes.” She surprised herself with the honesty of her answer. She _was_ considering Sherlock’s offer seriously, but she hadn’t decided yet.

He seemed satisfied with her response, and she found herself relaxing a bit. Until his next words blew every bit of composure she had to the four winds.

“He’ll find out eventually, you know,” Mycroft said quietly. “About your condition.”

Joan stared at him, her tea frozen partway to her mouth. “I—I…what are you…”

“You might be able to hide it for another few weeks, but once you begin your second trimester, the signs will be unmistakable. Even Sherlock, oblivious though he is in certain…areas, couldn’t fail to notice.”

She clenched her teeth so hard her jaw creaked. “How do you know about that?”

Mycroft sighed. “Medical records are very difficult to keep private, Dr. Watson, as I’m sure you know,” he said, pulling a Blackberry from the inner pocket of his suit jacket and scrolling down the screen. “It says here you are in your sixth week, and in perfect health, aside from an understandably high level of stress.” He looked up at her. “I do hope you’re taking care of yourself. It wouldn’t do to fall ill.”

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business,” Joan hissed, every muscle tense.

“It could be.”

“It really couldn’t.”

“If you move in with Sherlock, everything about you will be my business,” he said, tucking the Blackberry away again.

“A little overprotective, aren’t you?” she retorted, her anxiety injecting the words with a more venom than usual.

“I take my fraternal responsibilities very seriously,” he responded calmly. He reached behind them for the teapot, refilling both their cups and taking a sip before continuing in a sober tone, “Sherlock is a genius. He possesses almost infinite analytical capabilities—as I’m sure you are aware, having witnessed him at work.” Joan nodded silently. Mycroft continued. “But he is limited in certain ways. His naïveté can be…astonishing.” Mycroft paused, looking down at his tea. “I am at least partially to blame for that,” he said, the regret clear in his voice. “Though I did what I believed to be right at the time.” He cleared his throat, raising his eyes to meet hers again. “The salient point is, Sherlock is inexperienced in the art of maintaining relationships. He sees in you the perfect assistant—loyal, capable, hard working—and won’t understand, or be capable of fulfilling, your need for further commitment.”

Joan considered Mycroft’s words, turning them over in her head. She could understand his worry, even if she thought his method of assurance was over the top. She herself had noticed that Sherlock’s knowledge had definite boundaries. He had no familiarity with astronomy or literature, and only the vaguest notion of politics—he couldn’t even remember the current Prime Minister’s name. The idea that he had no experience dating didn’t really come as a surprise.

“I know,” she said finally. “I don’t have any expectations like that. I’m not interested in a relationship with Sherlock. Or anyone, right now.”

Mycroft studied her. “And what about eight months from now?”

Joan sighed. “I don’t see why I should feel any different from how I do now. But if something changes, I’ll let you know.”

He smirked at her, leaning back in the plastic chair with a squeak. “My dear, what makes you think you’ll know before I do?” he said, laughing softly. He turned and retrieved the plate from the dissecting table behind them. “Biscuit?”

 

 

 

 

“Sherlock hasn’t come by in a while,” Molly sighed sadly. It was Tuesday, Molly’s last day at the morgue, and she and Joan were taking a much-needed afternoon gossip break.

“Yes, he has,” Joan replied. “He’s here all the time. Nearly every day.” A little too much, she thought privately, remembering their conversation the day before. Sherlock had renewed his offer of a flatshare, and Joan had asked for more time again. She still hadn’t made up her mind.

“Really?” Molly sounded surprised. “I haven’t seen him once! Do you think he’s avoiding me?”

“I doubt it,” Joan said, but she wasn’t entirely sure. Now that she thought of it, Sherlock _did_ have an uncanny ability to appear just when Molly was out of the room. She wasn’t sure what to make of that. “I don’t think he cares one way or another, as long as he gets to see the bodies.”

Molly sighed. “You’re right. But still. I wanted to see him before I left.”

Joan raised an eyebrow over her cup of milky decaf coffee. “You’re married, aren’t you?”

“And very happily too,” Molly retorted, mock-glaring at Joan. “But just because I’m married doesn’t mean I’m _blind_. Come on, Joan, tell me he isn’t gorgeous.”

Joan cocked her head thoughtfully. Sherlock _was_ fit, in a tall-dark-and-handsome kind of way, and he knew how to dress to his advantage. But he was too pale for her taste and far too thin. He made her want to mother him, “feed him up good and proper” as her mum used to say—not hop into bed with him. And he gave off this aura of untouchability that turned her off. No…while she went a bit weak at the knees for a tall man in a suit just like any other woman, Sherlock Holmes was not her type.

The thought of tall men in suits reminded her of someone else. “Have you met Sherlock’s brother?” she asked Molly, taking another sip of tea.

“His brother?” Molly frowned. “No, I don’t think so. Greg has though. He works for the government, right?”

“Does he?”

“Yes, ‘a minor position.’ I’m pretty sure that’s what Greg said,” Molly replied. She smiled suddenly. “Why, have you seen him? Is he gorgeous too?”

Joan rolled her eyes, but smiled. Didn’t Molly think of anything other then attractive men? Maybe it was the pregnancy hormones talking. She was about to say so, when a wave of nausea crashed over her and she clapped a hand to her mouth, rushing towards the staff toilets. She barely made it.

“Joan?” Molly knocked on the door, sounding worried. “Are you okay in there?”

Joan wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, feeling shivery and sick. “Yeah, I’m okay,” she called back. She stood unsteadily. Morning sickness, the doctor in her diagnosed promptly. _Brilliant_. She took a deep breath in an attempt to settle her stomach. If anything, it made her feel worse.

“Joan?”

“One moment,” she said, flushing the toilet.

Molly was waiting by the sinks, her lips turned downwards in a concerned frown. “Are you feeling alright? Maybe you should take the rest of the day off.”

“It’s fine, I probably just ate something a bit off yesterday,” Joan lied. She was reaching for the taps when another wave of nausea hit her. She doubled over, hand pressed to her mouth.

“Joan!”

Joan swallowed, fighting the urge to vomit. This was _awful_. All she wanted was an afternoon sitting around gossiping, drinking bad coffee, giggling about men, not thinking about the ticking time bomb in her belly counting down the days until her life would be turned upside-down. But it seemed her traitorous body wouldn’t even let her have that little bit of normalcy.

Unbidden, a lump rose in her throat and Joan was horrified to feel tears burning in her eyes. She _never_ cried in public, since she’d been old enough to understand that she had to be the strong, sensible one in the family. She heard Molly step away, probably to give her some privacy whilst she bawled. God, she probably thought Joan was an emotional wreck. She squeezed her eyes shut.

“Here,” a gentle voice said, and Joan felt something cool and damp against the back of her neck. She opened her eyes. Molly was standing beside her, still concerned. “It’s just a paper towel,” she explained, rubbing a circle on Joan’s shoulder. “Relax, it’ll pass in a moment.”

“Thanks,” Joan said in a small voice. She turned the tap on, scooping up a handful of water to wash out her mouth, and felt a bit better. Still queasy, but the need to throw up was gone.

“I was lucky, I never had to deal with morning sickness,” Molly said conversationally. “But I’ve heard it can be bad. If you ever need to take a break and lie down, I can show you where they keep the lilo in the staff room. God knows, I’ve used it often enough.”

“Hopefully I won’t need it,” Joan said, straightening with a sigh. “The one good thing about morning sickness is that it usually only lasts for the first trimester. I should be fine in a few weeks.”

Joan stopped suddenly, and the silence pressed heavily on her ears as the content of what she’d just said caught up with her. She turned, stunned, to face Molly. “Wait, you—”

Molly dissolved into giggles. “Your face!” she cackled into her hand, trying ineffectually to smother her laughter. “Oh god, so funny…”

“How did you find out?” Joan asked, trying to sound upset but failing utterly. A reluctant smile touched her lips. It was hard to feel like the world was ending with Molly laughing so infectiously beside her.

Molly took a breath to calm herself. “I didn’t, until just now,” she admitted, wiping her streaming eyes. “I guessed, but I didn’t know.”

“That was sneaky,” Joan accused.

“Yes, well.” Molly’s eyes sparkled mischievously. “You don’t watch Sherlock Holmes for five years without picking up a few tricks.” She beamed up at Joan. “But now that I know, we’re going to have so much fun! Have you picked out names yet? Do you know the gender?”

Joan tugged her ponytail. It was a nervous habit of hers. “It’s too early for that. I’m only six weeks in,” she said eventually, throwing caution to the winds. What the hell, Molly already knew anyway.

“I hope it’s a girl,” Molly said. “Then our kids could get married.”

Joan couldn’t stop herself from rolling her eyes. “I hope you’re joking. Your son’s not even born yet, and you’re already setting him up? Poor kid.”

Molly smacked her lightly on the arm. “Of course I’m joking! Besides, gay marriage will probably be legal by the time they’re old enough, so it doesn’t matter.”

Joan nodded distractedly. She wasn’t sure what to say. She wasn’t sure she was ready to joke about the future like this, or think about what the world would be like when her baby grew up. She couldn’t even imagine what the world would be like in eight months, let alone years from now.

“Joan?” She looked up to see Molly watching her, her face serious. “I know there’s probably a lot of stuff going on that I don’t know about, and maybe you don’t want to talk to me about it. But—if you do, I’d be happy to listen. As a friend.” She smiled. “We girls have to stick together, don’t we?”

It was funny to hear Bill’s offer on someone else’s lips, but coming from Molly it sounded different. Joan found herself smiling back at the brunette. “Yeah. Thanks Molly.”

Molly grinned even more broadly. “Men just don’t understand what we have to go through,” she complained dramatically. “One day, they’ll invent a way for men to get pregnant, and I bet they’ll all be wimps about it. Like my husband—he’d be a total crybaby once the hormones got to him, I’m sure of it. And can you imagine Sherlock pregnant?”

“God, let’s not,” Joan groaned. “He’s a menace enough as it is.”

Molly led the way out of the bathroom, joking all the way. Joan was feeling well enough by the time they reached the door to the lab that she was actually considering having another biscuit. All the vomiting had left her stomach empty, and she was beginning to feel hungry.

But when the door swung open, they were greeted by two visitors: Sherlock, and a stranger in a black trench coat. Both men looked grim.

“Greg! What are you doing here?” Molly exclaimed in surprise, quickly moving towards the second man. Joan looked back at the silver-haired man with dawning realisation. He must be Greg Lestrade, Molly’s husband. But, didn’t he work for Scotland Yard?

“Sorry Mols, I can’t stay long,” he said, planting a kiss on his wife’s upturned cheek. Joan thought he looked tired. “But there’s something you should see.”

He pointed to a cardboard box sitting open on the table. Joan and Molly peered inside. The box was filled with salt, and lying atop the salt was—

“A head.” Sherlock had come up behind them and was looking over Joan’s shoulder. “Jane Downing’s, to be precise.”

Joan was recognized her. “Isn’t she—”

“The woman you diagnosed with Reynaud’s Syndrome, yes.”

“I remember her too,” Molly whispered. “She should still be in cold storage. We haven’t finished processing her paperwork.”

“So,” Greg began, frowning, “what was her head doing in a cardboard box on the steps of 221B Baker Street this morning?”

The rest of the day was spent in a frenzy of activity. Jane Downing’s head wasn’t the only part of her missing from storage: her entire body was gone. Molly went off to make some calls to other city morgues. “Maybe someone put in an expedited viewing request, and we just missed the paperwork,” she said, without much hope. The only other explanation—that someone had stolen the body—wasn’t something anyone wanted to consider. Security hadn’t reported any forced entries, so the thief must have had an employee card. The hospital’s basement level lacked a permanent security guard; conceivably, anyone with a Bart’s ID and the ability to slip past the cameras unnoticed could have gotten in (Joan thought guiltily of Sherlock’s illicit employee pass, and wondered how many other people were wandering around with similar IDs in their pockets. Ought she to have reported him?).

But why steal a body? Especially one that had already been processed, the cause of death identified, case closed. Joan thought she could understand why someone might steal a body to _prevent_ an investigation, but after the fact? What was the point?

“Do you think this is connected?” she asked. They had removed the head from the box and placed it on one of the post-mortem tables for examination. Joan rolled it over carefully with gloved hands. The salt had already begun to have a dehydrating effect on the flesh: one side of the woman’s face was puckered and discoloured. It wasn’t pretty, but luckily, Joan didn’t feel sick anymore. Amazing that a few biscuits turned her stomach, but the sight of a partially-mummified corpse had no effect. _Small mercies,_ she thought.

“Connected to what?” Greg said. He was standing just behind Joan, and when she turned the head over she distinctly heard him swallow at the sight of the ruined tissue. “Christ,” he whispered.

“No,” Sherlock answered brusquely. He pulled the head roughly out of Joan’s grasp and flipped it upside-down to inspect the severed side. “Ms. Downing’s brother has been in police custody for the past several days. He was responsible for the initial murder, but he has nothing to do with this.” He lifted the head close and sniffed loudly.

“So it’s just a coincidence that the sender took her body,” Greg said, managing somehow to ignore Sherlock’s odd behavior. “A prank?”

“I hardly think it’s coincidence that the victim is related to one of my most recent cases,” Sherlock retorted, still sniffing at the head. Suddenly, he thrust it back into Joan’s arms and stalked back over to the cardboard box. Grabbing a handful of salt, he lifted it to his nose. His eyes widened fractionally. He grabbed the box, and, with a surprising show of strength—the box must have weighed at least 25 kilos—dumped the whole thing out onto the floor.

“What the hell!” Joan yelled, as the spotless morgue tiling was doused in greasy salt. She dropped Jane Downing’s head back on the post mortem table and rounded on Sherlock. “Are you _insane?_ What are you doing?” It would take ages to clean that up, not to mention he’d just contaminated the evidence. They kept the floor clean, but not _that_ clean.

Sherlock was already pawing through the pile of salt on the floor, and didn’t even register Joan’s outraged shout. She sent an exasperated look at Greg, but the DI was concentrating on Sherlock. “What is it?” he said urgently, watching Sherlock’s movements with sharp eyes. “Did you find something?”

Just then, Sherlock stopped and pulled a small slip of paper from the pile, a triumphant grin splitting his face. Joan leaned forward. It looked like a small packing slip, printed on cheap paper. “It’s a receipt,” Sherlock explained gleefully. He placed it carefully on the counter, and Joan and Greg crowded around to get a better look. “This isn’t just any butcher’s salt, it’s Sel de Mer, and the sender was hasty.” He jabbed at the receipt, pointing to the address at the bottom: White & Perry, one of the most expensive gourmet shops in London. Joan bit her tongue looking at the price on the receipt; it was close to the cost of a month’s rent.

“Sloppy work, forgetting about the receipt,” Sherlock muttered quietly, almost to himself. His forehead creased.

Greg was staring down at the receipt too. “60 kilos of salt,” he said, frowning. “There can’t be more than twenty here.”

“Our sender must anticipate delivering several more parcels. I expect you’ll have the rest of Ms. Downing within the week.”

Greg’s frown deepened. “Are you sure this isn’t just a prank, Sherlock?” He waved his hand, taking in the salt-covered floor and the severed head on the table. “It’s bloody awful, but I can’t see why else someone would do this. It looks like they’re baiting you.”

“Baiting me,” Sherlock murmured, narrowed eyes still locked on the receipt. “Yes, definitely. But a prank?” He stalked back to the now-empty cardboard box and bent down to flip it over. Scrawled across the side in red permanent marker were the words:

I. O. U. SHERLOCK HOLMES

  


Joan felt a chill rise up her spine, and Greg cursed softy. “Do you know who might’ve sent this, Sherlock?” he asked, turning back to the detective.

Sherlock shook his head jerkily, frustration knotted in the tense line of his shoulders. “No.”

“Well, it looks like _he_ knows _you_ ,” Greg said, looking pointedly back down at the box. He pulled out his mobile with a sigh. “I’ll get the team over to White & Perry. Maybe we can find a lead on the salt.” He tapped out a message, whilst Joan slid the receipt into the evidence bag Sherlock passed her silently. Greg looked up in surprise when Joan held it out to him. “Ta,” he said, smiling at her for the first time. “Will you say sorry to Molly for me? Tell her I’ll give her a call later.”

“Sure.”

“Thanks.” Greg looked down at Sherlock, who was still crouched over the salt on the floor. “If you find anything else—”

“I’ll get in touch if there’s anything you need to know,” Sherlock said without looking up. He was sifting through the salt again, grinding the fine crystals between his fingers with great concentration.

Greg rolled his eyes. “If only I believed you,” he commented dryly. “Alright. See you later, then.”

Once the DI had left, Joan turned back to Sherlock. “You’re not going with him?”

“No,” Sherlock replied briefly. He had gotten his pocket magnifier out, and was examining a pinch of salt on the tip of his gloved finger.

“Why not?”

Sherlock gave a long-suffering sigh. “Because the sender left the receipt on purpose. It’s a false lead.”

Joan’s mouth fell open. “You just sent the police out on a false lead? For God’s sake,  _why?_ ”

“They were in the way,” Sherlock whinged. He held out a hand, palm up. “Pass me a slide.”

“No.” Joan glared at him. “I have to call Greg,” she said, already running through her options. She didn’t know the DI’s number, and while Sherlock obviously did, it was equally clear he wouldn’t help her. Molly would have it, and she was probably still in the office…

“Joan,” Sherlock interrupted her thoughts. She glanced down at him, suspicious. “I need space to complete my observations without idiots constantly breathing over my shoulder. And as Lestrade would tell you, the Met needs to follow up on all possible leads anyway,” his lip curled. “That’s part of the reason why so-called ‘official’ investigations are so inefficient. Now, the slide.” He held his hand out expectantly.

Joan let out a deep breath. “You’re a complete dick, you know that?” she said, pulling a sterile glass slide from the set on the counter and slapping it into his waiting palm.

Sherlock smirked. “So I’ve been told.”

He sprinkled a pinch of the salt on the slide, then added a few drops of water as a suspension liquid. Joan followed him over to the microscope as he set it up.

“If the receipt was a plant, what are you looking at the salt for?” she asked.

“The neck,” Sherlock replied cryptically as he adjusted the focus on the microscope. “That much is obvious.”

“I didn’t see anything strange about the neck.”

“Obviously,” Sherlock sneered. “You see, but you do not observe.”

Joan bit down on her lip, but stalked over to the table where Jane Downing’s head still lay on its side. She raised it gently, cautiously turning it over to look at the severed end. It was barely tacky to the touch, a result of the prolonged salt exposure, though a few crystals still clung to the exposed tissue. The cut was relatively smooth, but the ridges in the bone suggested the implement used had been serrated—probably a surgical saw. As she turned the head, something glittered in the flesh. Frowning, she held it up to the light. Something sparkly was embedded in the cut: tiny particles, too dark and too metallic to be salt crystals.

“Gunpowder.”

Sherlock leaned back from the microscope, his hands pressed together beneath his chin in a prayer position. “Rifle grained fine. For some reason, it’s been added to the salt.”

“Are you sure they aren’t just random carbon or mineral particles?” Joan suggested. “Salt comes from mines, doesn’t it? Maybe something got mixed in.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “ _Sel de Mer_ , Joan. Sea salt,” he translated waspishly. “And I know what gunpowder looks like under a microscope. It was added on purpose, as a message.”

Joan raised an eyebrow. “Bit subtle for a message,” she said. “Don’t you think the sender might worry about it being overlooked?”

“He sent it to me,” Sherlock retorted. “I don’t overlook things.”

_Yes, you do,_ Joan thought, but she kept that to herself. Instead, she reached down and picked up the battered cardboard box, turning it over in her hands to see the message printed on it one more time. “Who do you think could be threatening you?” she asked.

Sherlock looked annoyed at the sudden change of topic and frowned at her. “I already said, I don’t know.”

“Oh, so you weren’t lying about that part.” Sherlock gave her a black look.

“If I knew, do you really think I’d be _here_?”

The answer was, of course, no. If Sherlock had any idea as to the identity of the criminal, Joan had no doubt he’d be halfway across London in hot pursuit already, the hospital, the victim, and herself all left forgotten in the dust. That was just the way he was, she reasoned.

“True,” she replied, and her voice was steady. “It just seems weird that he knows so much about you—where you live, the cases you’ve worked on, all that—and you don’t know anything about him.”

Sherlock’s lower lip pushed out. On a lesser man, it would have been a pout. “I know plenty,” he sulked.

Joan cocked her head, silently prompting him to continue.

“The box is cheap, generic,” Sherlock began, standing and moving closer to take the box from Joan. He ran a finger along the red lettering, tracing his name. “Block capitals, clearly meant to disguise the sender’s handwriting. The parcel was hand-delivered, suggesting either that the sender was unsure of my exact address or, more likely, that he wished to intimidate me by implying his access to my personal living space.” Sherlock frowned at the box. “Stapled shut with a staple gun, by someone left-handed. Not the same person who left the message on the side.”

He sighed, letting the box fall again to the ground. “Very little information, aside from the obvious. The secret is in the salt.” He ground his heel angrily into a patch of salt dotting the floor, crushing it to a fine powder. Joan hoped he wasn’t about to start pacing again. It would take even longer to clean up the morgue if he started tracking salt all over the place. He groaned in annoyance. “Joan, tell me about salt.”

“What about it?”

“Just anything! Whatever comes to mind.” He glared at her. “Come on, we haven’t much time.”

“I don’t know,” Joan said desperately. “Cooking?” It sounded stupid, even to her. “How is this supposed to help, exactly?”

“You might be dull yourself, but as a conductor of light, Joan, you’re quite invaluable,” Sherlock replied. Joan twitched. It had been a long time since she’d heard such a backhanded compliment from someone who wasn’t related to her. “Now go on, tell me more.”

Joan rolled her eyes. “Let’s see…crisps. Seawater. Salt mummies. That woman in the Bible, can’t remember her name…umm. Fish and chips. Mostly I think of food, really.”

He looked up sharply. “What was that about the Bible?”

“Oh, there was a woman in the Bible who was turned into salt—I think it was in the Old Testament. I can’t really remember anything else.” Joan’s last Sunday school lesson, the only real religious education she’d ever received, had been a while ago. The Watsons were, on the whole, both atheist and traditional: stubborn about customs like church on Christmas, Sunday school attendance and baptism, lackadaisical about everything else. Belief in God was beside the point.

Sherlock huffed his disapproval of Joan’s ignorance, already pulling out his mobile to search the internet.

“Well, it’s not like you’ve read the Bible either,” Joan protested. She sighed. “Maybe we’re looking at this wrong. No, hang on, just hear me out,” she added when Sherlock seemed ready to interrupt. “The head was sent to _your_ address. The box has _your_ name on, and the gunpowder-salt mixture was something only _you_ would notice. The message is obviously for you…so why would it have to do with something you don’t know much about? Think about it.”

“Perhaps,” Sherlock said in a voice that suggested he wasn’t considering her proposition at all. “But that would assume the sender is aware of the weaknesses in my knowledge base, and there are very, very few people who are.”

“Well, I didn’t say anything.”

Sherlock’s lips turned upwards slightly in a smile, and it was not his usual wolfish grin, but something softer, and a little more human. “I never said you did.” Joan smiled back at him.

There was an awkward little cough, and Joan looked up to see Molly standing in the doorway, giving her a knowing look. Joan blushed. “Molly, I didn’t hear you come in.”

“She’s been standing there for the last three and half minutes,” Sherlock stated, still tapping away on his mobile. “Since you started talking about salt.”

“Ah,” Joan said, and she felt her blush deepen. She cursed her fair, easily-flushed skin. It always made people misinterpret things.

“About that,” Molly said, coming up beside Joan. “I think you were talking about Lot’s wife. When they were escaping from the cursed city of Sodom, she looked backwards and God turned her into a pillar of salt. It’s in Genesis. I don’t see what that can have to do with Jane Downing, though.”

“I didn’t realize you were religious, Molly,” Joan commented in surprise.

“I’m not. But Greg likes to go to church, and there’s not much else to read in the pews.”

Sherlock snapped his mobile shut. “Family outings, how lovely,” he quipped sarcastically. “Now, any news about the body?”

Molly sighed. “Unfortunately, no. It looks like it really was stolen. I had Mike request the security camera footage from the past two days, and there’s a tape missing from Sunday night. No one’d even noticed it was gone.”

Joan licked her lips nervously. _Sunday night_.

Sherlock nodded as though this information didn’t come as a surprise. “I thought so.” He closed his mobile with snap and began re-wrapping the scarf around his neck.

“Are you leaving?” Joan asked.

“Yes.”

“Where are you going?”

“Home. There’s no point in further analysis until more evidence appears,” Sherlock replied, now buttoning his coat and turning towards the door.

Joan frowned after him. “What about the salt?”

Sherlock shrugged, his hand already on the door handle. Then he was gone.

“Ugh,” Joan groaned. She could feel a headache coming on. It was like that sometimes—actually, most of the time—with Sherlock. He was so utterly, unselfconsciously selfish, that she couldn’t really blame him for it. She could only reproach herself for being the idiot who went along with him time after time.

“I hate it when he does that,” Molly said, glaring at the closing door. She had her hands on her hips, framing her rounded belly. “You know, when he swans about in that ridiculous coat, looking all dramatic and not explaining anything. Drives me round the bend.”

“Yeah,” Joan agreed. Sherlock’s inability to explain his mental leaps to others was a constant source of annoyance, but it was also his most captivating quality. She sometimes thought he did it on purpose.

“And Greg left without saying goodbye. Not even a text for his pregnant wife,” Molly grumbled. She moved forward, looking down in confusion when the floor crunched beneath her step. “Joan, why is there white stuff all over the floor?”

Joan decided to skip over the question. “Greg says he’s sorry, and he’ll call you later.”

Molly arched an eyebrow in her direction. “I’ll…get the mop,” Joan muttered, and headed towards the store cupboard.

 


	3. Chapter 3

It was already dark by the time Joan got home later that evening. She cursed softly when she saw the sign on the lift: “Closed for maintenance. Please use stairs.”

“Bugger,” Joan sighed, turning towards the staircase. It was only five flights up to her flat, but after the day she’d had, it felt like a million, and her calves and thighs were burning by the time she reached the door.

The flat was pitch black, and she fumbled for a moment in the entrance. Something smelled at bit off, she thought, feeling around for the light switch. Had she forgotten to empty the bins yesterday? She couldn’t remember. Finally, she located the switch and, with a click, the overhead light in the kitchen turned on, flickering once before releasing a dim but steady glow. Joan shrugged out of her coat, tossing it along with her bag on the floor by the door, and headed immediately into the kitchenette. The smell of rot got stronger as she rounded the corner, confirming her theory about the bins. _Fuck_. Well, it could wait until morning. What she needed now was a cup of tea—even the decaffeinated herbal crap she’d gotten for the baby would do. She was so intent on her goal that she got nearly halfway across the linoleum floor towards the kettle before she noticed it.

Joan froze, then turned slowly on the spot. On the table—the cheap Ikea table, that she’d only gotten because it seemed wrong not to have one—lay a box.

A cardboard box.

Joan stared down at it. It was rectangular and larger than the one she’d seen at the morgue, but she was certain it was from the same sender. Unwillingly, she approached. Only a few haphazard staples held down the top flaps, so it gaped open in certain spots. Joan tugged one flap up, ripping out some of the staples. The scent of decay wafted even more strongly from the box, and despite her training, Joan had to hold her breath to lean forward.

It was an arm. _Jane Downing’s_ , Joan thought, glancing down swiftly at the fingertips. Sure enough, the nail beds were visibly tinted blue, though the surrounding flesh was bloated and discoloured—already in the second stage of decomposition. Whatever substance the sender had packed it in this time—and by the dark grey colour of the sandy material, Joan knew it couldn’t be salt—it hadn’t done much to slow down the putrefaction process.

She closed the box again, and the stench diminished to a bearable level. Biting her lip, Joan considered her options.

She should probably call 999, but she didn’t relish the thought of a swarm of police officers descending on her flat. And what would she say anyway? “Sorry, I’ve got an arm in a box over here, nothing pressing, but maybe you could send someone to pick it up? It’s making my kitchen smell bad.” Right. That didn’t sound crazy _at all_. Maybe she could request DI Lestrade specifically…but that came with its own problems. She’d have to explain how she knew so much about the case, for one, and she was fairly certain she knew more than your average morgue technician was supposed to. And her flat would still become a crime scene.

She supposed she could call Sherlock. Joan ran a finger over the outline of the mobile hidden in her back pocket, turned the idea over in her mind. He would want to know, and at least it would only be Sherlock invading her home, rather than half the Met. A chuckle forced itself from between her lips. There really must be something wrong with her, if calling Sherlock was beginning to sound like the more relaxing option. _God, I desperately need a drink._

That did it, Joan decided. She would take a break before calling anyone, official or no. First, though, she had to get the goddamned box off the table, because there was no way she was going drink her tea with a bloody rotting arm under her nose.

She wrapped her arms around the box, teasing up the corners so she could tuck her fingers under for a better grip. It was an awkward size and shape for a small woman like her. With a grunt, she heaved it sideways, sliding it across the table. She wouldn’t be able to carry it far, but if she could just get it to the floor…

The bottom of box was halfway off the table when she felt the cardboard give. The loose— _unsecured_ , she realized with mounting horror—flaps at the base of box gave way, and greyish particles spewed from the opening, coating her arms and covering the floor.

“Shit!” Joan yelled, shoving the box back onto the table before the entire thing fell apart.

She stumbled backwards, her heart thudding painfully in her chest, and accidentally tripped over one of the kitchen chairs. She fell hard, crashing into the kitchen counter, but luckily took the brunt of the fall on the back of her arms and shoulders. For a moment she just huddled on the floor, back aching, until she realized that her hands were tucked protectively—instinctively—over her belly. The realisation gave her the strength she needed to look up.

From the low angle, she could see the long side of the box, towering over the edge of the table like Canary Wharf over the Thames. Despite the dim light and the shadows cast by the lid, the familiar red writing was just about legible:

I. C. U.

  


The hairs on the back of Joan’s neck rose up, but her soldier instincts kicked in before she would allow the weakness of a shiver. Someone had been watching her. Maybe they still were.

She stood slowly, rubbing her stinging elbows, her eyes darting quickly around the flat. It was small, but in her edgy state the darkened corners seemed menacing and the closed bedroom door stood like a threat on the opposite wall. She licked her lips. _Come on Joan. You were in Afghanistan. This is nothing._ Shewiped her hands on her trousers, and was pleased to find them steady. _Just open the door. That’s it. One step after another._

Her hand was just closing around the doorknob when the buzzer rang, and Joan froze.

“Joan, it’s me.”

Joan’s heart started beating again. She strode to the front door and yanked it open.

“You arse!” she growled. “You nearly gave me a heart attack, d’you know that?”

Sherlock pushed past her into the flat, and headed immediately towards the mess in the kitchen. “I knew it,” he said triumphantly, gesturing at the box with a broad smirk. “Lestrade texted me, it seems they got a leg over at Scotland Yard. I _knew_ the next parcel would be here.”

Joan crossed her arms, glowering at him. “Thanks for letting me know.”

He seemed disappointed by her lack of enthusiasm. “I came over as soon as I realized,” he said somewhat defensively, turning back to the box on the table. “Now, how are we going to get this back to 221b?”

“You’re not,” a voice panted from the doorway.

Sherlock’s head whipped around. “What are _you_ doing here?” he hissed, eyes narrowing to slits.

Mycroft stepped forward. He looked exactly as Joan remembered him from their meeting on Sunday, in an identical three-piece suit and carrying the same umbrella, but his face was a bit pinker and he seemed slightly out-of-breath. He recovered quickly, however, when he caught her looking. “I’m here for the same reason you are, I expect,” he said, turning back to face Sherlock. “Out of concern for Dr. Watson.”

Joan raised an eyebrow. She liked Sherlock, and she was pretty sure he considered her a friend, but she highly doubted Sherlock was here out of concern for her safety.

Sherlock didn’t bother addressing Mycroft’s comment. “Leave now, you’re in the way. Joan, call a cab. No, actually text Lestrade…we’ll need help moving this.” He bent down to look into the box, poking at the grey sand-like stuff packed around the flesh in fascination.

Mycroft stepped into the kitchen, gaze sweeping over the partially ruined box and particle-strewn floor. “Absolutely not,” he said firmly. “You will come to my house. Don’t argue,” he added, when Sherlock opened his mouth to interrupt. “221b is no longer a safe environment. It was the first location targeted, and the sender will expect you to return there. In addition, my people think it is being watched—they found an unauthorised piece of surveillance equipment hidden in the moulding around the mantelpiece earlier today.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes at his brother. “Well, that’s nothing new, is it?” he responded acidly.

Mycroft pointedly ignored him. He turned to Joan. “Dr. Watson, I would like you to come as well, if it is not too much trouble.” He sounded oddly deferential, as though expecting her to protest. “In the meantime, I can have a security system installed here to prevent future problems.”

“I don’t mind, but there’s no need to go to all that trouble,” Joan said uneasily. “I think it’ll be fine as soon as I get rid of the, erm, box.”

He shook his head. “I don’t think you understand. That box should never have gotten inside your flat. And given its current state—”

“The sender must have filled the package right here in the flat. Just look at the staples!” Sherlock cut in. Mycroft sighed, but allowed his brother to take over. Joan glanced at him. He had a tolerant expression on his face as he watched Sherlock gesticulate his way through the explanation. It was…strangely sweet. “The base has not been secured, so the sender or his assistant must have brought the box, the arm, the gunpowder and the salt separately and combined them _in situ_ ,” Sherlock was saying. “It would have been impossible to carry the filled box as it is now. This is meant to threaten, to say he can get inside any place he wishes.”

“But why would he want to get inside my flat?” Joan asked.

“Because you know _me,_ obviously,” Sherlock answered huffily. “The package at 221b was left for Mrs. Hudson to find. Then Lestrade, and now you. The pattern is obvious.”

“I’m afraid he is right,” Mycroft added, soft enough that only Joan could hear. He pulled her aside; Sherlock was so engrossed in examining the writing on the side of the box that he didn’t even notice. “You still have a choice at this point, Dr. Watson,” he said. “You see how it is—my brother is a magnet for danger. You’ll never be safe as long as you are by his side.” He looked down at her, his expression unreadable in the dim light. “You can leave now. I could find you another flat, another job. You would never have to see either of us again.”

Joan squinted up at him, but she couldn’t see well enough to tell what he was thinking. It didn’t matter anyway. She’d already made her decision. In fact, she’d probably made it a week ago, when Sherlock had first stormed into her life in a whirlwind of colour and excitement. She had the taste of danger on her tongue now, and well…addiction always _had_ run in her family. “I’ll go pack my things,” she said. “And you can stop calling me Dr. Watson. It’s just Joan.”

Mycroft exhaled, and the corners of his eyes crinkled. She thought he seemed pleased with her answer. “I will go and speak with my brother, then, Joan.”

She nodded, and headed into her bedroom. It was empty, of course (what had she been thinking before?), and she hurried immediately towards the bureau, grabbing a small overnight bag as she went. Indistinct, but clearly raised, voices floated through the closed door, and she shook her head, glad that the job of convincing Sherlock fell to Mycroft and not herself.

She opened the top drawer to reveal her old Sig, still wrapped in the soft polishing cloth just as she’d left it. She lifted it carefully from the drawer, a comforting weight in her hand, even unloaded as it was now. With a glance behind her, she tucked it into the bottom of the bag, along with several rounds and the polishing cloth, and then she continued packing.

It took her barely five minutes to get ready, but by the time she exited the bedroom, both brothers were lined up waiting by the door. Sherlock was sulky but unresisting, and Joan wondered what exactly Mycroft had to said to get him to acquiesce. At the thought, her gaze shifted to the older Holmes, and she found him regarding the overnight bag in her hand with an amused expression. _He couldn’t know about the gun_ , Joan comforted herself guiltily. No one knew. Still, she moved the bag to her other hand so it was partially hidden behind her legs. Mycroft’s smile widened.

“I’m ready,” she announced, hoping to distract him.

“Finally,” Sherlock snapped testily. “Let’s get this over with.”

Mycroft held the door courteously, clearly meaning for Joan to go first, but Sherlock (with his usual amount of tact) stepped in front of her and disappeared down the stairwell before she’d even moved. Mycroft looked askance at his younger brother. “You’d think he was raised by wolves,” he muttered under his breath, and Joan had suppress a laugh.

“Thank you,” she said as they left the flat.

“For what?”

“For—well, you held the door,” she said and winced at how pathetic that sounded.

He chuckled darkly. “Consider it an apology in advance. The next few hours are sure to be a trial to us both.”

She felt a sudden frisson of nervous energy twist her stomach at the words. She wasn’t sure why, but she had the strange feeling that things were about to change; it felt like the first step towards something.

 

 

 

 

“That is _not_ a word.”

“I assure you, it is.”

“'Oe'? Where? On Planet Holmes?”

“It means, ‘a whirlwind off the Faroe Islands.’ It comes from the Faroese term for ‘furious.’”

“Oh, a _whirlwind_ ,” Joan repeated, rolling her eyes. “Off the Faroe Islands. Of course. How could I have forgotten such a vitally important word?” She grimaced at the board. Mycroft, of course, was dominating: he’d taken every one of the four triple-letter scores they’d got near to, and played two bingos. “This is ridiculous,” she said. “Next thing you’ll be telling me that ‘ai’ is a three-toed lizard or something.”

“Very close, Joan, but I believe you’ll find it refers to a three-toed _sloth_.”

She just stared at Mycroft in bemused exasperation.

“For the love of my sanity, would you both just _shut up!_ ” Sherlock hissed, slamming the encyclopedia he was reading with a deafening crack. He launched himself out of the overstuffed armchair he’d commandeered and began pacing around the richly furnished drawing room. “I can’t stand it,” he muttered as he walked. “Not another minute.”

Joan and Mycroft shared a look. It had been nearly three hours since the Holmes brothers had appeared on her doorstep and brought her to Mycroft’s stately London townhouse. Feeling too wound up to sleep, Mycroft had suggested a friendly game of Scrabble to pass the time, and Joan had agreed (Sherlock had merely snorted his derision at the idea). In reality, they were merely waiting for the moment when Sherlock’s patience wore thin; both had known it would only be a matter of time.

Sherlock stalked over to the glossy wooden table opposite Joan and Mycroft, which was covered with scientific equipment—apparently, from Sherlock’s personal collection. There was a small microscope and a set of slides, two pairs of latex gloves, tweezers and even a centrifuge. There were also several beakers full of the salt and gunpowder mixture, one from each of the boxes, and Jane Downing’s body parts (Joan decided then and there not to ask how Mycroft had managed to get the head and leg out of police custody) arranged neatly on several dissecting trays.

Sherlock picked up the first beaker. The substance inside was nearly pure white, and for the second time, Joan noted the difference between it and the stuff packed around the arm found in her flat.

“97.8% sea salt,” he said. “The ratio decreased by approximately forty percent with each parcel. The one from Joan’s flat had the lowest, 35.2% salt to 64.8% gun powder.”

“So, mostly gunpowder then,” Joan said.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Thank you, Joan, for your unfailing ability to state the obvious.”

“Don’t be petty,” Mycroft rebuked him. “It’s not Joan’s fault you’re stuck.”

“That’s right, Mycroft, _defend mediocrity_. That’s your job, isn’t it?”

“Stop bickering, you two.” Joan stood, moving towards the table to take another look at the beakers. “So, the ratio of salt to gunpowder is decreasing. Is that part of the message?”

“Obviously.” Sherlock braced his hands against the edge of the table. “The problem is, I don’t know what it _means._ ”

He growled and pushed violently away from the table, striding back to his chair and collapsing into it. “Go away,” he barked abruptly, his fingers threaded together beneath his chin and his gaze distant. “I need to go to my mind palace.”

“Your what?”

“Come along, Joan,” Mycroft said, heaving himself to his feet with a long-suffering sigh. “He won’t be doing anything potentially life-threatening for the next fifteen minutes. I think we should take the opportunity to find ourselves some refreshment.”

He led the way out into the hall. Joan glanced back once, but Sherlock hadn’t stirred from his reverie. His eyes were glassy and unblinking.

“Are you sure that’s…normal?” she asked as Mycroft shut the door. “He looks a bit strange.”

“He always looks strange,” Mycroft quipped testily, and Joan let out an involuntary chuckle. For a moment, she could see Mycroft and Sherlock as young boys, both with impossibly well-developed vocabularies and an inability to stay out of each other’s hair for longer than a minute.

Mycroft caught her eye, and coughed. “Excuse me, that was childish,” he said. “It does look a little unusual, but I assure you that Sherlock is in no danger. He’s merely trying to access his memory through his ‘mind palace,’ as he likes to call it.”

There was that word again, ‘mind palace.’ Joan had never heard of such a thing. “That’s what this ‘mind palace’ is? A memory?”

“No, not exactly. It is a mnemonic device, wherein various memories are grouped and placed inside an imaginary house. This ensures that no memory is ever lost; one merely has to find one’s way back to the appropriate room.”

“So Sherlock’s got a palace full of memories. In his head.”

“Exactly.”

Joan frowned, trying to visualise the idea and failing utterly. Finally, she gave up. “What have you got, then?”

Mycroft looked confused. “Could you be more specific?”

“Sherlock’s got a palace,” Joan replied. “And you’ve got a—a castle? A Taj Mahal?”

“Certainly not,” Mycroft sniffed. “A mansion is more than sufficient to organize any person’s memories. Sherlock just likes to be dramatic.”

“Well, thank God you’re above all that.”

Mycroft sent a penetrating look her way, but Joan kept her face carefully bland. He narrowed his eyes at her for a moment, before pushing the door to the kitchen open.

The room was large and modern, with gleaming black-and-white tiles and an island in the middle twice as big as Joan’s kitchen table. Stainless steel appliances dotted the countertops. Everything looked brand-new—either that, or very rarely used. Mycroft crossed to the refrigerator. “What would you like? I have milk and orange juice. I would offer you something stronger, but…” he trailed off delicately.

“Orange juice is fine,” Joan said, settling onto one of the leather-covered barstools lined up beside the island.

Mycroft poured her a glass and set it on the counter before filling another glass with ice water.

“No nightcap for you?” Joan raised the juice to her lips and sipped. Fresh squeezed. It didn’t taste anything like the stuff from the carton.

“I never drink when Sherlock’s in the house,” Mycroft replied, taking a long swallow from his own glass. “Too much liability.”

“God, I can believe it,” Joan agreed. “Can’t drink around my brother either, though not for the same reason.”

Mycroft nodded. “Yes, I imagine you wouldn’t want to encourage his alcoholic tendencies.”

Joan grimaced into her juice. “Do you know you do that out loud?” Mycroft looked confused again, and rather annoyed. Joan got the distinct impression that he was unaccustomed to confusion, and wasn’t liking his sudden introduction to the feeling one bit. “I mean, talk about stuff you’re really not supposed to know.”

He raised a calculated eyebrow. “Does it bother you?”

Joan considered. “A bit,” she admitted. “The stuff about the alcoholism. You shouldn’t have said that.” She took another drink of orange juice. “It’s not a big secret or anything, everyone knows Harry’s got problems. It’s just—I’d have rather told you myself, if you wanted to know.”

“I see.” Mycroft looked thoughtfully down at his glass of water. “And what I said on Sunday. Did that bother you as well?”

“Not as much,” Joan replied without thinking, only realising as she spoke that it was true. Strange. She’d have to think about that at some point, when she had more time. Right now, though, she had bigger things to worry about. “That reminds me. Molly said that Jane Downing’s body was stolen on Sunday night—some of the security tapes were missing. Did you have anything to do with that?” she asked bluntly.

Mycroft didn’t appear offended. “Yes,” he said to her surprise. He must have seen the shock and disapproval on her face, because he quickly amended himself: “That is, I had the security tapes removed. I had nothing to do with the theft of the body.”

Joan frowned at him, still slightly suspicious. “Why did you take the tapes?”

He sighed. “My only desire was to keep our meeting private. You must believe me, I had no other motive.”

Did she believe him? Joan wondered. She knew she wanted to. If Mycroft had the tapes, maybe they could recover some footage of the real thief. “Do you know where the tapes are now, then?”

“Yes, but I regret to say that they have been wiped,” Mycroft said, the remorse clear in his eyes. “It’s standard procedure—we would have edited the tapes and returned them before their absence was noticed, if it weren’t for the onset of recent events.”

Joan let out a disappointed sigh. “Bugger. I thought we might have something.”

“Indeed.” Mycroft’s brows furrowed, and when he spoke again his voice cut the air like a steel blade. “What is more disturbing, however, is the idea that the thief was well enough informed about my schedule and methods to take advantage of them. The logical inference is that someone in my employ has compromised our security.” His grip tightened around his glass. “They will have to be dealt with.”

A shiver ran through Joan despite the comfortable warmth of the kitchen, and it occurred to her that Mycroft Holmes was a dangerous man. They had had tea and biscuits, played scrabble, talked about their siblings…unconsciously, she had begun to think of him as the “milder” of the two Holmes, despite the secretive and perhaps even sinister nature of his job. But his hard expression as he spoke of “dealing with” people was somehow scarier than Sherlock’s insensitivity and obsession. When she was with Sherlock, she got the sense that he couldn’t help himself: his brain would burn itself up, claw itself to bits, without the distraction of a case. With Mycroft, she wasn’t so sure. He was subtler than his brother, smoother, his motivations more opaque. Everyone had secrets, and Joan was no exception, but she had a feeling that Mycroft’s were darker than most.

They sat absorbed in their thoughts for a few more minutes, finishing their respective drinks. Joan had just reached the bottom of her glass, when the sound of a mobile ringing split the silence.

“Excuse me,” Mycroft said, reaching into his pocket. He glanced at the screen. “It’s my assistant. She wouldn’t call at this hour if it weren’t important.” He sighed. “I might be a little while, so please, help yourself to anything you’d like.”

Joan nodded as he exited the kitchen, mobile already raised to his ear. She thought she heard him say something about a party—the Labour party?—as he walked out into the hall, but the words were muffled and she couldn’t be sure.

His “assistant,” he’d said. _She._ Joan didn’t doubt him, it probably _was_ his assistant calling, but she wasn’t unobservant either. She had noticed the ring on his finger the moment he’d walked through the door of her flat. A simple gold band, plain, but gleaming enough to show it was well cared-for. It was on his right hand, rather than his left, but that didn’t necessarily mean it wasn’t what she thought it was. _So he’s married,_ she thought with a mental shrug. _It’s not like I was interested anyway. I don’t want a relationship right now, I said so the first time we met. Haven’t I got enough on my plate?_

She stood with a groan. That kind of thinking was getting perilously close to feeling sorry for herself, and she wasn’t going down that road. She would go and check on Sherlock. If he was still busy, she could always come back to the kitchen. And if she explored a bit along the way…well, Mycroft didn’t have to know.

She’d barely gotten a few steps down the hall, however, when a loud crash and a curse from the drawing room made her rush forward and push open the door. Sherlock was standing in the middle of the room, his mobile lying in pieces on the floor. He was breathing heavily, his hand clenched.

Joan surveyed the scene. “You idiot,” she said calmly.

“Oh, shut up,” Sherlock snapped.

“The memory palace didn’t give you any ideas?” Joan closed the door behind her and leaned back against it, crossing her arms.

“I have exactly twenty-seven ideas, but none of them _add up,_ ” he groaned, dragging a hand through his already-messy hair. “It’s a riddle, he likes riddles. Word play, numbers, just look at the messages he’s left so far! But this, this is different. This is deeper, it’s a reference to something, but I just can’t understand it!”

“What makes you so sure it’s a he?” Joan asked. “The sender hasn’t signed anything, have they? It could be a woman.”

“Statistically more likely to be a man,” Sherlock retorted, drumming his fingers on the table. “Women are nine times less likely to commit a violent crime, twelve times less likely to be involved in organised criminal activity.”

Joan looked at Sherlock. The collar of his normally-pristine shirt was crumpled, and his hair was frizzy from constantly running his fingers through it. His eyes were red-rimmed and wild, with deep purple circles. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days, and there was a manic look to his movements. She hadn’t know him long, but even she could tell this wasn’t his usual behaviour. “There’s something strange about this whole thing,” she said cautiously, trying to modulate her voice to calm him, as a trainer might an excitable horse. She pushed off from the door, moving closer with her hands outstretched. “I don’t mean to criticise, but don’t you think he’s just playing with you? That maybe he _wants_ you to run around in circles thinking about his riddles all the time? Maybe the best course of action is to ignore him, and he’ll leave you alone.”

Sherlock sent her a disgusted look. “That’s the most idiotic thing you’ve said so far, Joan. If I left him alone, he’d just threaten more people. He’s doing this to catch _my_ _interest_ , don’t you see? It’s his calling card, his introduction.”

“Well, what do you want me to say?!” Joan burst out, exasperated. “‘Oh, how nice, Sherlock, you’ve made a new friend’? He’s a criminal!” She took a deep breath, willing herself not to lose her temper. “Look, this is not what people _do_ , Sherlock. Real people don’t send boxes filled with body parts as a getting-to-know-you present. Real people don’t threaten your friends.”

“What do _real people_ do then, in their _real lives_?” Sherlock sneered.

“They do fun stuff together,” Joan said. “Dates. You know, dinner and a film.”

“Isn’t that exactly what he’s been doing?” Sherlock retorted, leaning back to grab a beaker full of the salt-gunpowder mixture from the table. “Look! Salt, pepper.” He thrust the beaker to the side, and picked up the rotting arm that had been sent to Joan’s flat, shaking it in her face. “Even meat. I would call that dinner, wouldn’t you?”

Joan wrinkled her nose and took a step back. “That’s disgusting, Sherlock.”

But he didn’t respond. He was frozen, staring down at the severed arm in his hand, a look of wonder on his face. “Dinner,” he murmured again.

“What about dinner?”

He turned to her, his eyes wide. “What was it that came after dinner?”

“I don’t know, digestion?”

“No!” he shook his head impatiently, dropping the arm back on the table with a dull thud. “What you said before. You said ‘dates’ and ‘dinner’ and then you said something else. What was it?”

Joan’s forehead wrinkled. “A film?”

“Yes!” Sherlock shouted, a grin lighting up his face as he punched the air. “Dinner and a film, _obvious_ , why didn’t I think of it before?”

He pulled off his latex gloves and hurled them at the bin in the corner, missing completely. “Give me your phone!” he ordered, hand outstretched. When Joan pulled her mobile from her pocket, he nearly snatched it from her hands. “What films are popular right now?” he demanded, punching several buttons to unlock the scene. Joan grimaced, wondering when and how he’d gotten her password. “What do real people go to see?”

She still couldn’t see where this was heading, but she racked her brain for recent films nevertheless. “There’s the new James Bond film out, that’s pretty popular—”

“No,” Sherlock cut her off.

“Um, some chick flick with Jennifer Aniston, can’t remember the name…”

“No! What else?” He stabbed at the mobile in frustration.

“Oh, there’s that film ‘Salt’ opening today. I’ve been seeing ads everywhere. It’s the one with Angelina Jolie and Liev Schreiber, something about Russian spies.” Joan’s eyes widened. “Salt, Sherlock! Could that be it?”

“S.A.L.T., for the US-USSR Strategic Arms Limitation Talks, _of course_ he would use gunpowder,” Sherlock said, snapping the mobile closed and slipping it into his pocket. He grabbed his coat. “There’s a midnight showing at the London IMAX. We have to go now, it starts in fifteen minutes.”

“Wait a minute!” Joan reached for her bag, surreptitiously pulling her gun from the bottom and sliding it into her coat pocket along with a round. She hurried to follow Sherlock to the front door. “Why the IMAX?” she asked, catching up with him. “That film’s playing everywhere, it’s a huge blockbuster.”

Sherlock didn’t even bother to look at her as he raced across the street straight into the oncoming traffic, arm up to flag a passing taxi. “It’s obvious Joan, weren’t you paying attention?” he called over his shoulder as the taxi slowed down and stopped in front of him. “Cardboard!”

_Cardboard?_ Joan cursed under her breath, jogging across the street as horns blared. “Damn it, Sherlock!” she gasped when she reached him. “Don’t _do_ that.”

He rolled his eyes, holding the door open for her. “Come on, we don’t have time to waste!”

 


	4. Chapter 4

Once they were settled in the back of the cab, speeding in the direction of the cinema (“If you can get there in under ten minutes, I’ll pay you double fare!” Sherlock had told the cabbie), Joan turned to Sherlock.

“You have questions,” he said, before she could open her mouth.

“Right. Yes.” She licked her lips. “What did you mean by ‘cardboard’? No, actually—start from the beginning. Why a film?”

Sherlock crossed his arms. “That was your idea. You said that a normal date includes ‘dinner and a film.’ Don’t you remember?”

“Yes,” Joan replied. “But I don’t see what that has to do with the parcels.”

“It’s a riddle, a visual metaphor. The parcels represent a meal: the body parts are the meat, the salt and gunpowder are salt and pepper, respectively,” Sherlock explained. “The connotation is obvious. The criminal has been sending me ‘dinner’ for the past day, albeit in abstracted form.”

“Okay,” Joan said slowly, taking it all in. “I think I get it. So, after dinner, you go to the cinema?”

“Exactly,” Sherlock agreed. “The salt was also a clue to the film title, ‘Salt’, which is conveniently opening in theatres tonight.” Sherlock pulled back the cuff of his coat to see his watch. “In seven minutes, in fact.”

“And the cardboard?”

“Another clue.” Sherlock let his hand drop back to his lap. “The London IMAX is located in the middle of the Waterloo roundabout. Do you know what that area used to be called, before the cinema was built?”

“No.”

“It was called ‘Cardboard City’,” he replied. “Because it was covered in cardboard boxes. Homeless people used them for shelter during bad weather.”

“I’ve never even heard of it,” Joan said.

Sherlock looked out the window. “It was closed down in 1998, when the British Film Institute bought the land. Even before that, most of the homeless people had moved on. The authorities weren’t very agreeable towards squatters.” His voice was bitter.

“How do you know so much about this?” Joan asked curiously. “It’s not something I’d expect you to know much about.” Sherlock was still facing the window, but she didn’t think he was looking at the passing cityscape. His gaze was distant, unfocused.

“I have a number of contacts among the homeless,” he replied finally. “I find it useful for my work.”

Joan got the sense that there was something more to it than that. Sherlock’s bitterness, and his unusual reticence on the subject, spoke volumes, but she was sensitive enough to know when to stop pushing. This wasn’t the right time for a personal conversation anyway. Maybe there would never be a right time—sometimes, it was better for the past to stay in the past.

“Alright,” she said, deciding to change the subject. “So, cardboard boxes to signify Cardboard City, I get that. But I still don’t understand the connection with our thief.”

“It’s part of the riddle, Joan,” Sherlock grumbled, turning back towards her. She was relieved to see that the emptiness was gone from his eyes. “We’ve been focusing so much on the salt and gunpowder that I didn’t even consider the cardboard boxes. I thought they were merely a way to transport the body parts, but they were part of the message themselves.

“Each parcel is a double metaphor: first, dinner—the meat, the seasoning, et cetera. Secondly, the film—salt for the title, the cardboard box to indicate the location of the theatre: the London IMAX. The timing of the rendezvous is easily deduced by fact that all three parcels were received today. Clearly, the sender intends our ‘date’ to occur soon, and as the film in question is opening tonight, the logical conclusion is that he means to attend the midnight showing.”

“Wait a minute,” Joan said, her voice rising. “Are we on our way to meet a possibly mentally-unhinged body snatcher? At the cinema?”

“I hope so,” Sherlock replied.

Joan stared at him. “He’s—he’s _flirting_ with you,” she whispered, shocked. “The sender. Or body snatcher, whatever you want to call him.”

“I doubt he considers it flirting,” Sherlock scoffed.

“No,” Joan corrected, shaking her head. “He’s definitely flirting with you. Jesus, Sherlock, you attract all the weirdos, don’t you?”

“You realise you’re including yourself in that statement.”

Joan’s eyes narrowed. “Right. Clearly, there’s no point in telling you how weird this whole thing is,” she sighed, rubbing her face tiredly with one hand. “So why don’t we just move right along to the important stuff, shall we?”

“Excellent idea, Joan,” Sherlock agreed. “You have your gun, I trust?”

“I—what?” Joan exclaimed, blindsided by the sudden question.

“Your gun. A Sig Sauer P226R, judging by the size and shape of the bulge in your pocket.”

Joan clapped a hand to her pocket, feeling the solid bulk of plastic and metal through the fabric. “How did you—” she broke off, shaking her head. Of course Sherlock knew about the gun. He’d probably known ever since they’d left her flat, some subtle twitch of her hand or change in her gait giving away the existence of the illegal firearm.

“Actually, it was my insufferable brother,” Sherlock remarked. “His reaction to you was most informative.”

Joan made a mental note to bring that up with Mycroft later.

“As I was saying,” Sherlock continued, “That gun would do both of us much more good loaded.”

Joan glanced in the direction of the cabbie. He hadn’t made any indication of overhearing the conversation going on in the backseat, but his presence made her nervous. “I’m not sure this is the best time, Sherlock.”

“On the contrary, this is the only time. We have no idea what might be waiting for us at the cinema.”

Joan frowned at him. “What does that mean?”

Sherlock shrugged. “We may simply be meeting the sender in person—he could, as you say, just be ‘flirting’ with me. But I doubt it.”

“Why?”

He smirked. “Because of the gunpowder, Joan. The gunpowder, which has been increasing with each parcel as the salt has been decreasing. What does that say to you?”

“I don’t know.” Joan’s forehead wrinkled, bemused. “Nothing. Is it supposed to mean something?”

“I believe it is the final piece of the message,” Sherlock said, his smirk widening to a grin. “Everyone knows what gunpowder is good for.”

“And what is that?”

“Boom.”

 

 

 

 

 

The taxi arrived with two minutes to spare. Sherlock dashed from the car as soon as it stopped moving, leaving Joan to pick up the tab.

“He your boyfriend?” the cabbie asked, sounding unimpressed.

“No,” Joan said, passing over her last two twenty-pound notes with a sigh. She needed to go to the bank.

The cabbie shook his head. “Don’t bother with prats like him. Nice bird like you deserves better.”

“Right, thanks,” Joan said awkwardly, sliding out of the taxi. She glanced towards the entrance to the cinema. Sherlock was already at the ticket desk.

“Hey, wait a minute!” The cabbie called, smiling through the window at her, and holding out a small business card. “I’ve got my own car service—call if you ever need a ride. I’ll give you a discount rate.”

Deciding that arguing would only take longer, Joan took the card and pocketed it without a glance. “Ta.”

The cabbie winked. “Have fun, luv!”

When Joan caught up with Sherlock, he was arguing vociferously with the ticket vendor.

“I’m sorry, but the show has already started,” the spotty teen at the desk said.

“Cinemas show an average of eleven minutes worth of previews before the actual film begins,” Sherlock retorted. “It won’t make any difference if we’re a few minutes late.”

The kid shrugged. “That’s the rule.”

Joan came up behind Sherlock. “What’s wrong?”

Sherlock’s eyes fell on Joan, lighting up in a way that said he’d just had a really bad idea. Joan couldn’t even be surprised when Sherlock suddenly wrapped a protective arm around her waist, pulling her close to his side. He turned back to the ticket vendor, his expression beseeching. “Please, it’s our anniversary, and my wife really wants to see this film.” Joan tried to look disappointed.

“Well…” The ticket vendor’s forehead wrinkled, like she was thinking hard. “I guess it’ll be okay. Just this once.”

Sherlock whipped out a credit card before the girl had even finished her sentence, and moved forward to slide it across the desk, dragging Joan alongside him. The loaded gun in her pocket dug into her hip, caught between their bodies. She could practically feel the bottled-up energy rolling off Sherlock, as the ticket vendor slowly slotted his card into the machine, and waiting for him to enter his PIN, then printed he tickets. As soon as she’d passed them over, he released Joan and sprinted into the theatre. She jogged along behind, ignoring the girl’s confused stare.

Despite the ticket vendor’s words, the lobby of the cinema was still full of people milling about chatting or buying snacks. Joan scanned the crowd from their vantage point near the entrance, but no one stood out. Sherlock seemed to be equally frustrated. “Why are there so many people here?” he whinged, lip curling.

“Well, it _is_ a cinema, Sherlock,” Joan snapped. If Sherlock’s deductions were correct—and she’d known him just long enough to appreciate that they usually were—there was a bomb planted somewhere in this theatre, a bomb that might go off at any time. They had to get these people out fast.

Sherlock seemed to be thinking along the same lines. “We have to get them out of the way,” he said.

“Yes,” Joan agreed, straightening to attention as a plan formed in her mind. “We’d better find the management first, let them know about the threat, then we have to call the police—”

“No,” Sherlock interrupted. “If we call the police now, we’ll never be able to find the body thief. What we need to do is get rid of all these people so we can flush him out into the open.”

Joan stared at him. “What about the bomb, Sherlock?” She licked her lips. “Don’t you care about these people _at all?_ ”

Sherlock made a careless gesture with one hand. “I said we’d get them out of the way.”

Joan pressed her lips together silently, but her accusatory stare spoke for her. Sherlock rolled his eyes at her.

“Oh, have I upset your soldier’s morals, now?” he asked, tone scathing.

“No,” she answered quietly. “I just thought you were better than that.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened, but his reply was cutting. “ _Don’t_ turn people into heroes, Joan,” he said. “Heroes don’t exist, and if they did, I wouldn’t be one of them.”

Joan bit her tongue. She didn’t need Sherlock to tell her that heroes didn’t exist. She’d been to war.

“This isn’t about being a hero, this is about being _human_ ,” she said finally. “I know you don’t do this for purely altruistic reasons, but I figured you were motivated by _some_ concern for human life.”

“Do you think my motives matter to these people?” Sherlock turned to look out at the crowd again. “Do you think they’ll care whether I save them out of some misplaced concern based on our common species classification, or whether I do it because I just _like the work_?” He let out a humourless laugh. “I don’t think so.” He glanced back at Joan, taking in her guarded expression. “Are you not going to help me now?” His voice was carefully indifferent. “Not much cop, this caring lark.”

“Of course I’ll help you,” Joan retorted.

His shoulders relaxed slightly at her response. Joan wondered if he even realised it. “Good.”

Joan stepped up to stand beside him, looking out at the mass of people. “But I still think you’re wrong about caring.”

Sherlock sniffed, but didn’t say anything. Joan licked her lips again. “So, if we’re not going to tell anyone about the bomb, how do we get everyone out of the cinema?”

“You’ll see.”

He headed in the direction of the bathrooms, Joan trailing behind. In the corner, beside the women’s toilet, was the emergency fire alarm. Joan’s eyes widened as she caught on to the plan, and she moved into position to shield Sherlock with her body as he reached for the lever.

As soon as he pulled it, a deafening shrieking noise sounded, accompanied by flashing white lights. The people in the lobby froze, momentarily confused. Joan sucked in a deep breath and cupped her hands around her mouth, drawing on her military training.

“Fire!” she bellowed as loud as she could, and she saw several people jump and start whispering in distress. “Fire! Everyone to the exits!”

People began to flood out of the cinema, heading towards the doors. “Well, that was easy,” Joan said, raising her voice so Sherlock could hear her over the combined din of the crowd and the fire alarm.

Sherlock looked down at her, a smile touching his lips. “It was.”

Then his expression changed, hardening and sharpening, and Joan knew he was already thinking of the body thief lurking somewhere in the theatre. “There,” he said, pointing at a door labelled “Employees Only” just to the right of bathroom.

The door led to a narrow staircase, illuminated by a strip of lights set just above eye-level. It reminded Joan of an airplane—the same stale, recycled air and muffled quiet of wall-to-wall carpeting. After a brief climb, the staircase ended at another door, this one with a large sign reading: “PROJECTOR ROOM. Do not open while film is in progress.” Sherlock reached out towards the handle.

“Sherlock.” Joan nudged the detective, pointing towards the crack under the door. “Look.”

Despite the dim light, it was still possible to make out the glitter of a few dark, metallic particles spilling out onto the carpet. The muscles in Sherlock’s jaw tensed and he gritted his teeth, his hand tightening around the doorknob. He pushed it open.

The projector room was far larger than Joan had expected. A window set into the left hand wall afforded them a bird’s eye view of the darkened theatre below, the screen blank and grey. The room was also extremely cold, and Joan shivered as they stepped inside. The whirring of the overtaxed air conditioning unit drowned out all other sound—even the not-so-distant shriek of the fire alarm barely registered. The gigantic machine set into the floor at the centre of the room, on the other hand, was still and quiet.

“Is that the film projector?” Joan asked in a hushed voice, staring at the white plastic monstrosity. It looked like a cross between an MRI scanner and a carwash, complete with rubbery black hoses and tubes disappearing into the ceiling.

“IMAX films use 70mm film, which requires a specialised projector,” Sherlock whispered back without looking up. He was ignoring the projector entirely in favour of the floor. Joan followed his gaze down. There was a faint sparkle to the floor where they stood, and when she ground her foot into it, the resulting sound was rough and gritty. “It’s a trail,” Sherlock announced before she could say anything. “More gunpowder.” He was already moving, eyes still glued to the ground, leaving Joan with no choice but to follow. She did of course, sliding one hand into her pocket to palm the Sig Sauer still hidden there.

The trail of gunpowder wound around the projector, leading to yet another doorway on the far side of the room. This one was open, and Joan could see that the room beyond was filled with storage units. Sherlock forged ahead, his black coat billowing out behind him as he swept a tight corner around one storage unit, whilst Joan paused in the doorway.

“Film reels,” she muttered to herself, staring up at the massive wheel-shaped canisters. They were each nearly two metres in diameter, balanced in stacks of six on round metal platters. The whole system appeared to be automated—Joan could see a space in the wall where the machine fed the reels through to the projector next door.

“Joan.” Sherlock’s tone snapped like a taut violin string, and Joan’s head jerked up immediately.

“Sherlock?” She hurried in the direction of his voice, drawing the gun from her pocket as she went.

Sherlock was crouched over two bodies—or, more accurately, one body and one partially-butchered corpse—lying atop a heap of gunpowder. The first was the body of one of the theatre employees, the logo on his uniform bloodied, but still clearly visible. The second was the rest of Jane Downing, with her torso wrapped modestly in a plain white sheet like some grisly parody of the Venus de Milo.

“He’s dead,” Sherlock said, rising to his feet. “Must have stumbled across the criminal while he was working.”

Jane lowered her gun, moving closer to examine the man on the ground herself. “Blunt force trauma to the back of the head, then knifed in the chest,” she told Sherlock, pointing at the wound. “He bled out.”

“Given the angle, he was probably already unconscious when he was stabbed,” Sherlock commented. “A mercy killing, or insurance against witnesses?”

“He probably would have lived if he hadn’t been stabbed.”

“Insurance, then.” Sherlock circled the bodies, frowning. “There’s something off about this.”

“What?”

“This isn’t nearly enough gunpowder to be dangerous,” Sherlock said, indicating the pile of black particles. “Gunpowder is a relatively weak explosive. I thought its presence in the boxes was non-literal, shorthand for a more powerful incendiary device.” He stopped pacing to scrutinize one of the film storage canisters nearby.

Joan stood. “Isn’t that a good thing? Maybe he really is just playing a game with you.” _It’s time to end this farce,_ she thought. A man was dead. She couldn’t put off calling the police any longer. She patted her back pocket, where she normally kept her mobile, only to find it empty. _Damn,_ she thought. She’d given it to Sherlock earlier and he hadn’t returned it. “Sherlock, could you give me back my phone? I need to make a call.”

Sherlock didn’t make any indication of having heard her. He was now hauling at the cover of one of the film canisters, trying to open it.

“Sherlock?” Joan moved closer. “What are you—”

With a snap, the plastic cover cracked open. Sherlock froze, staring into the depths of the film canister. “What is it?” Joan asked, coming up behind him and reaching towards the container.

“Stop!” Sherlock shouted. Joan jumped and yanked her hand back.

“Christ,” she gasped, heart pounding. “What was that for?”

“Don’t touch it,” Sherlock said tensely. He slowly eased his hand off the container and reached into his pocket to withdraw a mobile—Joan’s mobile, in fact—and hold it up over the opening. The glow from the screen illuminated the interior of the container, and Joan could see it was filled with a thick, oily liquid.

“Nitroglycerin,” Sherlock answered her unspoken question. His face was grim. “If every film canister in this room is full of _this,_ then there is more than enough explosive to decimate the entire cinema.” Joan felt her blood run cold at the words. “This must be the reason our criminal didn’t shoot the intruder—nitroglycerine is extremely shock-sensitive. In fact, given the volatility of the material, I’m surprised opening the container didn’t cause it to ignite.”

Joan swallowed. “Sherlock, this would be a good time to call the police. Or…” she hesitated, then plowed ahead, “Mycroft.”

Sherlock’s face creased in distaste at the name, but before he could say anything, a loud buzzing noise sounded overhead and the machines surrounding them came to life.

Both Joan and Sherlock automatically flinched away from the open film canister, but, luckily, it didn’t move. However, one of the reels nearer to the ceiling did. It began to spin in lazy circles, feeding film through the wall into the room next door. Sherlock, recovering first, pushed Joan aside and sprinted back through to the projector room. Joan took a deep breath and hurried after him.

She caught up as Sherlock was bending over the projector. It was ablaze with energy now, and the frigid temperature of the room was finally explained: even from a few feet away, Joan could feel heat rising from the machine. She glanced up to look through the window into the theatre. It was showing what looked like the start of an old-fashioned countdown, the kind of thing they used to have at the beginning of black and white films. The number “10”, surrounded by a white circle, was currently frozen onscreen. The image itself wasn’t what caught Joan’s eye though. There was something moving in the theatre, down near the edge of the screen. Or someone.

“Sherlock,” Joan hissed, nudging the detective. “Sherlock!”

“What?” he snarled, finally looking up.

“Look.”

He followed her finger, pointing out into the theatre. His eyes lit up at the sight of the moving figure, and in a second he was whirling away from her in a flurry of coattails, racing to the stairs. Joan was about to follow, when a loud beeping noise made her look back through window once more. To her shock, the image on the screen had begun to change, the white circle around the “10” quickly filling with black. It was indeed a countdown, and Joan was suddenly struck by what that meant.

Eventually, the countdown would end, the reel would be finished, and the projector would move on to the next film in the storage room. The only problem was that the next film in the storage room was not a film at all.

Heart in her mouth, Joan ran after Sherlock, down the stairs, through the lobby, into the theatre. Her hands were cold and clammy with adrenaline, but their grip on the pistol was steady.

“Sherlock!”

He was down at the front of the theatre already, his figure thrown into relief by the light from the screen. Above him, the number taunted her.

6

.

.

.

“Sherlock, we have to get out of here!” she called, panting as she jogged down the aisle to his side.

“He’s gone,” he groaned, cursing. “It will take forever to track him down again.”

“We have to go,” Joan repeated, panic rippling through her veins. “Sherlock, the countdown, look!”

“Oh, dear,” an amused voice echoed through the theatre, and both of them stilled, listening. “It looks like you’re running out of time, doesn’t it? I’m rather disappointed in you, Sherlock. I thought this was going to be the start of something beautiful.”

5

.

.

.

“Come on!” Joan cried, one hand tugging on the hem of Sherlock’s coat. “Forget it, he’s just trying to distract you.”

“No!” Sherlock tried to wrench out of her grip. “He must be manipulating the sound system, we have to get back up to the projector room.” He finally managed to pull away and began to run back up towards the exit.

“You idiot!” Joan hissed, rushing after him. There were only seconds to spare, going by the timer on the screen.

Meanwhile, the voice continued its monologue.

“I thought we were made for each other,” it moaned dramatically. The voice was male, Joan noted, neither particularly high-pitched nor low. Neutral. Dangerous. “We were made to play this game.”

“Show yourself, then,” Sherlock called out into the empty theatre, slowing as he reached the final row of seats. “Show yourself to me. You can’t play a game from the shadows.”

“But you’ve let me down, Sherlock,” the voice replied, taunting. “You’re one of _them_. Boring.” It blew a raspberry into the microphone. The sound was loud enough to make Sherlock wince.

Joan ignored the voice, focusing on the distance between herself and Sherlock. They needed to get somewhere safe— _safer_ , some obnoxious part of her brain insisted, because there was nowhere truly _safe_ in the cinema, given the amount of explosives upstairs. If only she had her phone, she thought. If only Sherlock weren’t such a stubborn git. If only they had more time.

4

.

.

.

Joan finally caught up with Sherlock and seized him by his coat collar, throwing all her body weight into the move. They fell together, rolling beneath a row of seats. Joan braced herself above the detective, as she’d been taught to protect civilians from gunfire or roadside bombs, with her body stretched to cover his longer torso. She couldn’t see the screen from her new position, but she could feel the beat of the countdown in her bones.

3

.

.

.

Sherlock grasped her arms, snarling below her.

“What are you doing?” she tried to argue, but before the words could pass her lips, he’d flipped them roughly over. The sudden movement and collision with the hard floor of the cinema smashed the wind from Joan’s lungs. Sherlock’s face was millimeters away, his breath hot and fast against her cheek, but despite their compromising position, his eyes remained trained on the seconds ticking by on the digital display of the mobile still clutched in his hand.

Ridiculous as it was, she couldn’t help thinking, _thank god no one’s here to see this._

2

.

.

.

“I’m sorry it had to end this way.” The voice was back, just as overdramatic as before. It sighed. “The great consulting detective and his pet, destroyed in the prime of life. Such a tragedy.”

Joan couldn’t contain a snort of gallows humor. “The real tragedy is that I’m going to die in a cinema listening to some nutter’s idea of a good voice-over. You’d think they could at least hire Morgan Freeman.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at her, and suddenly they were both laughing hysterically. Sherlock’s arms were actually quivering as he shook with mirth.

“Don’t fall on me,” Joan cautioned him, calming herself.

“Never,” he replied with a crooked smile, bracing himself yet again to provide some futile protection.

Joan smiled back momentarily, before her gaze fell to the illuminated number on the mobile in his hand. Two seconds left. Her hands curled instinctively over her stomach, cradling the almost-imperceptible curve. There was no logic to her thoughts, nothing as coherent or articulate as a last wish—just a jumble of emotion, fragments of sensation, images flashing before her eyes and away again before she could understand what they meant. And below it all, a deep, sorrowful awareness that she wanted this little life, that she’d always wanted it, that she regretted only coming to that realisation now.

Joan chanced another look up at Sherlock. His eyes were closed. She gritted her teeth and closed hers as well.

Maybe it would help.

1

.

.

.

 


	5. Chapter 5

  


Time passed. Joan’s chest felt tight, and she reminded herself to breathe. Breathing. There shouldn’t have been enough time for her to breathe.

Finally, Joan chanced a look up. Above her, Sherlock’s eyes were already open. He was frowning at the numbers on the mobile.

“Sherlock, Joan? Are you there?”

The sound of the blessedly familiar voice sent a jolt through Joan’s body. _Greg._ She pushed Sherlock off hurriedly and struggled to her feet. “Yes,” she called, waving.

Greg’s shoulders slumped in a sigh of relief. “Thank God,” he said, striding down towards them.

As he approached, Sherlock rose to his feet, still frowning. He moved forward to intercept Greg. “Did you catch him?” he asked, but the DI swept him aside. To Joan’s surprise, he continued straight past Sherlock and took hold of her shoulders.

“Are you alright?” Greg asked, his forehead creased with worry. His gaze swept over her body, searching for injuries.

“Joan’s fine,” Sherlock quipped waspishly. He crossed his arms. “I suppose it is too much to hope that you managed to both catch the perpetrator _and_ deal with the explosives upstairs.”

Greg ignored Sherlock, his eyes still on Joan. He leaned in closer, whispering, “I heard from Molly about your—about you.” He gestured in the general area of her stomach, sounding apologetic. “Are you sure everything’s okay?”

Joan looked down and was startled to find her right hand still resting lightly on her abdomen. She wondered at how natural it felt there, how unselfconscious she was about the position. She didn’t even feel annoyed that Molly had spilled the beans. “I’m alright. Really,” she added, when Greg’s look of concern didn’t falter. “Nothing happened, just a lot of running around.” She decided not to mention knocking Sherlock to the floor—it would only lead to unnecessary questions, and she really _was_ alright. “How did you find us? Did you crack the riddle?”

It was Greg’s turn to look confused. “Riddle?”

Sherlock interrupted with his usual impatience. “Obviously, it was Mycroft,” he said. “No one at the Met has the capability or insight to solve the puzzle.”

“Anderson found the nitroglycerin,” Greg corrected, swiveling to face the detective.

“Anderson couldn’t find his way out of a paper bag,” Sherlock retorted. “Mycroft planted a tracking device on Joan hours ago. He’s been feeding the coordinates to dispatch all night, just as I predicted.”

“ _Tracking device?_ ” Joan repeated in an outraged voice, just as Greg sputtered, “Predicted?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Obvious. Dull,” he replied in a tone that suggested they were missing the point entirely.

This was not a satisfactory answer. Joan shot a sideways glance at Greg, who rolled his eyes at her. “Alright, then. If you ‘predicted’ everything, what’s going on with the bomb upstairs?”

“I didn’t say I predicted everything,” Sherlock said haughtily. “Foreseeing the next move of a criminal mastermind requires effort and creativity. My brother, on the other hand, is a known quantity.” He shifted to face the screen, the harsh light bleaching his skin and eyes stark white. “I guessed that his target would be the projector room, as other areas of the cinema have far too much regular foot traffic to effectively disguise the explosives, but I didn’t predict this specific situation.”

Joan looked up at the screen for the first time since they’d hit the floor. The countdown had stopped at two, though the circle was nearly full. It was almost funny, in a perverse way. She had _thought_ she was going to die; the cortisol currently coursing through her veins, making her giddy with relief, was a testament to that. Yet that final, interminable second had never actually happened. Strange that the most significant near-death experience of her life was a fake.

“He wasn’t in the projector room, Sherlock,” Greg said, pulling Joan’s attention back to the conversation.

“He must have been.”

“It was a recording.” Greg shook his head. “When was the last time you went to the cinema? Talkies have been around for a while now.”

“I don’t need to go watch some brainless drivel to understand film technology,” Sherlock snapped. “I know more than enough to tell you that IMAX film doesn’t use an embedded soundtrack. The sound is recorded separately, and then digitally synched with the film during the performance.”

“So the soundtrack was separate then, so what?”

“So,” hissed Sherlock, “we were up in the projector room seconds before you arrived. The digital sound system was off. He _must_ have been feeding the sound manually, probably through a microphone.”

Greg crossed his arms. “Well, there’s no way he was physically in the cinema. We had the place surrounded—we would have seen him leaving.”

Sherlock fell silent, his expression stony. Greg sighed, and rubbed a hand over the five-o’clock shadow darkening his chin. “Let’s get you both outside. We need to have you checked over for injuries. It’s procedure,” he added quickly, before either could protest. Having used that excuse herself, Joan was in no position to complain. “And Sherlock, tell me about this ‘puzzle’ you keep going on about.”

As they walked towards the exit, Sherlock launched into an explanation of the gunpowder, the date metaphor, and the meaning of the cardboard boxes. Greg made a disgruntled noise when he explained the meaning of the salt, but didn’t interrupt. As they left the building, a slender woman with a halo of dark ringlets and a harried expression turned towards them, hesitating for a fraction of a second at the sight of Sherlock.

It was the hesitation that got her. “Sergeant Donovan,” Sherlock said, taking the initiative. “Pleasant evening?” His sarcasm cracked like a whip.

“It _was_.”

“Yes, cleaning Anderson’s floors must be quite an entertaining business. I’m sure his wife appreciates it,” he replied smoothly, with a pointed look in the direction of her legs. Joan’s eyes followed automatically, and she noted that the woman’s knees did look a little raw.

To her credit, Donovan only glared at Sherlock, though if looks could kill he would have been a smoking pile of rubble by now. She turned to Greg. “We found something. Thought it might be important.” She held up a clear plastic evidence bag, inside of which was a vibrantly pink mobile. “It’s set to speaker.”

Sherlock made a grab for the bag, but the sergeant lifted it out of his reach. “Hands off,” she warned him. “It’s evidence, freak.”

Joan felt her burgeoning sympathy for the police sergeant wilt. “I think he deserves to see it, after practically solving the case for you,” she said, eyes narrowed. Donovan’s attention turned in her direction, and she raised an eyebrow.

“Who’re you?”

“This is Dr. Watson,” Greg introduced her. “She works with Molly at Bart’s. Joan, this is Sally Donovan, my second in command.”

“Joan’s my colleague,” Sherlock added.

“Colleague?” Sally’s eyebrows travelled farther up her forehead in disbelief. “You don’t have _colleagues_.” She turned back to Joan, one hand on her hip. “Did he follow you home?”

“Well, yes,” Joan admitted. Greg turned to stare at her as well. “But only because there was a severed arm on my kitchen table.”

Greg chuckled, and Sally looked mildly disgusted. Sherlock merely frowned. “I really do think you should let Sherlock see the phone,” Joan continued. “It’s only fair.”

Greg and Sally held a silent staring contest, which Sally lost. She sighed, capitulating. “Here,” she grumbled, reluctantly handing the evidence bag over to the detective. Sherlock snatched the proffered phone instantly. “But you have to give it back.”

“Of course,” Sherlock replied carelessly, already engrossed in the mobile. Sally rolled her eyes, then turned around and stalked back into the cinema. Greg rubbed his face tiredly.

“We’ll need both your statements, too,” he said. “Everything, including what happened when you found the arm in your flat, Joan. We may have to come photograph the scene.”

Joan stifled a groan. “Can it wait until morning?” she asked hopefully.

“Technically, it already is morning,” Sherlock commented without looking up.

“Thanks for reminding me, Sherlock,” Greg muttered. He glanced at his watch, cursing softly. “Damn.” He sighed. “Alright, come by the Yard in the afternoon, we’ll take your statements then. And don’t forget to bring the mobile,” he instructed Sherlock firmly. “Sally’s right, it _is_ evidence.”

Greg left to go check on the forensics team. Sherlock continued to study the pink phone, completely riveted. Joan poked him in the small of the back to get his attention. “You’re not off the hook about Mycroft,” she said firmly, when he finally looked up at her. “And you owe me. Now, what did you mean when you said he put a tracking device on me?”

“Check your pocket,” he grunted. “The left one.”

Joan thrust a hand into her coat pocket and turned it inside out, emptying the contents into her palm. There was some lint, a few pennies, and the cabbie’s business card, slightly bent. She frowned and dug back into her pocket, feeling around. Finally, her fingers brushed over something small and rounded like a bead, tucked into the corner of the cloth. She pinched it, carefully withdrawing it from her coat. It truly was tiny, barely more than five millimeters in diameter, smooth and black and inconspicuous. She would never have noticed it if she hadn’t already been informed of its existence.

"Joan," Sherlock sounded edgy. Joan looked up from her examination of the tracking device. He was staring down at the business card in her outstretched palm with a strangely intense expression. "What is that?"

"Nothing," Joan said, flipping the card over so the text was visible and holding it up for Sherlock to see. "Just something the cabbie gave me."

"Let me see."

Joan passed the card over with a shrug. She couldn't see why Sherlock was so interested. It was a standard business card, the kind you could buy at any printing shop. The back was blank, and the front read only "Janus Cars" in plain black font, with a phone number below.

Sherlock turned the card over in his fingers, examining it carefully. Finally, he pulled Joan’s mobile from his pocket once again. “Are you ordering a car?" Joan asked. It seemed unlikely.

Sherlock tapped the number into the mobile, but didn't lift it to his ear. Instead, he held the phone out between them, whilst Joan watched in bemusement. Then a ring tone sounded—not from Joan’s mobile, but from the pink phone in Sherlock’s other hand. Joan stared as her own number appeared on the mobile’s screen as an incoming call.

"‘Staying Alive’," Sherlock muttered. “How puerile.”

"At least he has a sense of humour.” Sherlock rolled his eyes.

The ringing continued to voicemail. Sherlock switched Joan’s mobile to speaker, so they could both listen to the message.

“Hello, you have reached the mobile of Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” the teasing, sing-song voice rang out, so different from the cabbie’s coarse accent. Joan clenched her fists. She would never forget that voice. “Congratulations! If you’re listening to this, it means you aren’t dead already. I’m a nice guy, you see, Sherlock—I always give people the benefit of the doubt.”

Sherlock’s grip on the mobile was white-knuckled, his lips peeled back from his teeth in a tight grimace. “I even replaced your mobile. You should really learn to control that temper of yours, darling. Your little doctor may not always be around to rein you in.” Sherlock’s eyes slid towards Joan for a moment, before his attention snapped back to the phone.

“Oh yes, I’m always watching, Sherlock. So don’t bother looking for me— _I’ll_ find _you_.” There was a smacking sound, like someone blowing a kiss. “Bye bye now, and be a good boy, won’t you?”

_Beep._

Joan swallowed thickly. She wasn’t easily intimidated by violence, but these weren’t just empty threats—this man was more than crazy enough to follow through. From the look on Sherlock’s face, that fact wasn’t going to stop him from tracking the criminal to the ends of the earth. The question was, would she follow him there? Did she even have a choice?

“He didn’t give his name,” she said at last.

“He didn’t need to.” Sherlock pulled the pink phone out of the evidence bag, and began scrolling through the list of calls. He held up the log to show Joan. “Look.”

There were two. The most recent one was just a string of numbers—the missed call from Joan’s mobile. The other had been made about ten minutes ago, right about the time they were entering the cinema. And it had a name.

Jim Moriarty.

“He programmed himself into the contacts,” Sherlock said, bringing up the contacts page and opening the single entry. “Just his number, of course.”

“You can trace mobile numbers though.”

Sherlock snorted, switching off the phone and slipping it into his pocket. “He’s too intelligent not to use a pre-paid phone. He will have disposed of it immediately.”

Joan eyed Sherlock’s pocket. “You’re not going to keep that, are you?”

“He gave it to me.”

“It’s evidence.”

He shrugged, an elegant ripple of his thin shoulders that managed to convey both boredom and condescension in one effortless movement. “The likelihood of Scotland Yard discovering something about the phone that I have missed is minimal. This is our best chance of communicating with the bomber.”

“You mean the best chance of him communicating with you,” Joan said, remembering the voicemail message: _I’ll find you_.

“There’s no difference.” Sherlock held out Joan’s mobile. “Here,” he offered, as though it were a gift.

Joan took the mobile, shaking her head. “Thanks. I was beginning to think you’d never return it.”

Sherlock gave her a strange look. “Why would I do that?” he asked. “There would be no way to text you if I needed something.”

“That’s right, Sherlock,” Joan replied, rolling her eyes. “I live to serve.” She took a step in the direction of the street corner. “Come on. You’re paying the cab fare this time.”

 

 

 

 

Joan went to work that morning, but Molly threw her out the moment she set foot in the morgue. “You’re supposed to be recuperating!” she clucked, prying the lab coat from Joan’s fingers. “Go home and rest.”

Joan couldn’t relax at home. Maybe it was the lingering odor of decomposing flesh (no matter how well-trained Mycroft’s cleaning staff were, a dead body would always smell like a dead body), or maybe she was still riding the high of the case—either way, Joan found herself at nearly midday walking aimlessly and alone through central London.

She wasn’t altogether surprised when her phone buzzed.

**Turn left. SH**

Joan looked up. She was at the corner of Marylebone Road. She turned left, keeping an eye out for the detective, but it wasn’t until she was nearly halfway down the street that he popped out of a doorway by her side. She considered it a small victory that she managed not to jump.

“Hello, Sherlock,” she said calmly, as though his appearance hadn’t startled her.

“Joan.” His eyes crinkled at the edges, and she knew he’d seen right through her. “Taking an early lunch break?”

Joan rolled her eyes. “Don’t play dumb, it doesn’t suit you. I’m sure you’ve already deduced that Molly sent me home.”

Sherlock nodded. “Of course, but I thought you would appreciate the opportunity to say so. People usually like that.”

“Well, I’m not most people,” Joan replied. “Just be yourself.”

Sherlock fell into step beside her, and they continued walking in silence. Joan’s last words kept echoing inside her head. She wanted Sherlock to be himself around her, not sanitised and distant like he was for strangers, or argumentative like with Sally. She wanted to see the real Sherlock Holmes, brilliant and bizarre and irritating, because…why, exactly? They were colleagues and friends, and (maybe) flatmates. That was it—because, for all that there had been almost nothing ordinary about their relationship thus far, “be yourself” was exactly the kind of thing one said to friends. Everyone wanted their friends to trust them with the hard truth, just as everyone wanted someone to put their trust in.

Joan licked her lips. “There’s something I have to tell you,” she said in a rush before she could lose her nerve.

Sherlock slowed to glance down at her face when the silence had stretched on too long. “Yes?” he prompted.

“I’m…” Joan paused and took a steadying breath. “I’m pregnant.”

Sherlock stopped dead in the centre of the street to stare at her. “How?”

Joan shot him a concerned look. “The usual way?” Christ, if she had to explain the birds and the bees to Sherlock, she was going to hunt down Mycroft and…something. No one should be _that_ naïve at thirty-three.

Sherlock grimaced as though he’d read her mind. “Obviously,” he snapped. “I meant how…you were in the army…” he trailed off awkwardly.

“As shocking as this may sound to you, Sherlock, people _do_ have sex in the army.”

Sherlock frowned, but his gaze fell to glare down at the pavement, a sure sign that he felt he’d lost the argument. He began to walk again, faster than before and with longer strides, so that Joan had to double her steps to keep up with him. “Who knows about this?”

“Umm, well. Mycroft, Greg, Molly…”

“Mycroft?” Sherlock’s voice rose in outrage, causing several nearby pedestrians to jump and look back in consternation. “ _Mycroft_ knows?”

“Actually, he was the first one to find out,” Joan admitted. “He had my medical records.”

Sherlock sniffed darkly. “Cheating,” he muttered. “How could I have missed it? Stupid, stupid,” he chastised himself. “Voluntary leave from the army, the need for a job, the ill-fitting clothes—”

“What’s wrong with my clothes?” Joan asked. She looked down self-consciously. She was wearing jeans and a woollen jumper under her coat—her usual outfit.

Sherlock ignored her, continuing his ramble. “The expensive vitamins, the nausea. _Stupid._ ”

“Well, if it makes you feel any better, you’re the first person I’ve actually told,” Joan said. Aside from Bill anyway, which still made Sherlock the first person she’d _wanted_ to tell.

“And the last person to find out,” Sherlock whinged, pouting.

Joan felt a flare of anger. “Oh, right. I kept it a secret from you _on purpose_ , because my pregnancy is actually all about _you._ ” This wasn’t how the conversation was supposed to go, Joan thought. Her irritation with Sherlock abruptly redirected towards herself. What had she expected? Sherlock to suddenly become all sensitive and understanding? He wouldn’t be Sherlock then, and she’d already decided that that wasn’t what she wanted.

Sherlock looked uncomfortable. He slowed his stride minutely, just to the point that Joan could keep pace without straining.

Joan sucked a long breath in through her nostrils. “Look. I didn’t mean to leave you in the dark. I just…I didn’t know what to say.” She struggled to find the right words. “I didn’t really know how I felt about it myself, until today.”

Sherlock looked up, his gaze sharp. “And how about now?”

Joan licked her lips again. “Scared shitless,” she confessed. “But I know that I made the right decision. I’m not on the fence anymore.”

Sherlock’s intense stare didn’t waver, and Joan was slightly relieved when distraction arrived in the form of a text. She pulled out her mobile.

**Using all available resources isn’t cheating, it’s common sense. MH**

She smiled to herself.

“What’s that?” Sherlock tried to peer over her shoulder at the text, but Joan moved it out of his line of vision and slipped it back into her pocket.

“Nothing you need to worry about,” she said. Sherlock gave a little huff of irritation, but didn’t challenge her. “So, where are we going?”

“221B, of course,” Sherlock replied. He was back to looking at her, though his stare was no longer quite so invasive. “Assuming you’re still interested.”

Joan felt something inside her relax and unwind, something she hadn’t even realised was tense with nerves until that moment. She grinned. “Yeah, of course.”

Beside her, she heard Sherlock exhale slowly. When she glanced at him, he was grinning as well. “Excellent. How do you feel about the violin?”

 

 

 


End file.
